


No Quarter

by Mottlemoth



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Pirate, Don't copy to another site, Dubious Consent, Enemies to Lovers, Feelings, Growing Trust and Respect, Happy Ending, Hate Becomes Deep Love, Intimacy, M/M, Obsession, Power Dynamics, Restraints, Revenge Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-07
Updated: 2019-03-15
Packaged: 2019-11-13 10:21:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 21,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18029903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mottlemoth/pseuds/Mottlemoth
Summary: Every sailor fears a pirate; all the pirates fear Lestrade. A hunter of renown with many years' experience of the sea, he's become just as ruthless as the men he hounds. A year ago, he claimed the greatest prize of all: Mycroft Holmes, terror of the Caribbean, whose brilliant mind and elusive nature made him a force to be reckoned with.Unlucky for Lestrade, not all captains go down with their ship. Mycroft Holmes is alive and he's looking for reparation.And there's only one apology he'll accept.





	1. Broadside

**Author's Note:**

> This story is written (with much, much love) for my wonderful friend HastaLux's birthday, which means it's less Gilbert & Sullivan and more Game of Thrones. I was overjoyed when Luxie gave me this as a prompt for her birthday - firstly because I freaking love pirates, secondly because it gave me a good excuse to write them with the gritty bits left in.
> 
> I'll draw your attention before we begin to the tag _Dubious Consent_ , which is new from me. Though this is a love story with a happy ending, it starts out in a coercive situation between enemies (captor/prisoner). No violence or distress is involved and every sexual encounter is wholly enjoyed by both characters, but Mycroft Holmes will _not_ be awarded his gold star in consent on this occasion. (He's not even getting an 'I Gave It My Best Shot' sticker.) If you're uncomfortable with a clash of sex and power, you know where to click.
> 
> Happy birthday, Luxie. <3

By the time they roped him to the mast, they barely needed to. He was half-dead already. He'd fought until the fight was against his own muscles, cutting the bastards down long after there was any chance. _You'll take me down. So be it. I'm taking half you fuckers with me._ The deck now gleamed, red as rubies; the dead outnumbered the living.

It hurt just to breathe.

Why they'd bound him instead of killing him, he didn't know. The ship had appeared without colours on the horizon, taken one look at him and attacked. _Someone who knows me. Knows my ship._ He supposed he'd made enough enemies.

Whatever they wanted, they'd better do it soon. He could feel his consciousness ebbing at the edges; his vision had started to fade. Any second now he'd be facing the Almighty and walking backwards into hell.

As he swallowed back a throatful of blood, there came distant shouts—the thud of a plank being lowered.

_Finally,_ he thought, forcing his swollen eyes to open. Blurry figures seemed to sway around him. _Let's see your face. The one who stopped me._ He'd known it would come someday. The game he'd played all these years wasn't a game he'd hoped to win; that wasn't the point.

He watched, his breath roughening, as the ring of wary pirates around him parted.

A silhouette appeared between them, tall, flanked at one shoulder by a blurry first-mate. He strained to get his eyes to focus. _I want to see you,_ he thought. _Spit at you. Ask you who the fuck you think you are._ It wouldn't work; he'd bled too much of himself away. He panted through the pain, eyes lulling shut with a final weary blink. _Doesn't matter. All the same. All of you, the same._

A moment of silence passed. He could feel the weight of the pirate captain's gaze upon him, studying, appraising. There came the click of buckles as boots stepped forward; the bastard knelt down into his space.

Fingers wrapped beneath his chin. They lifted his face, getting a better look at him.

Greg swallowed again, too weak to resist. _Do it. Arsehole. Cut my fucking throat._

A huff of breath ghosted over his face.

"Is it him, sir?" asked a woman's voice.

The hand around his chin let him go.

"So it seems." As the pirate captain stood, Greg's chest heaved against his ropes. Pain blistered through his body. "Take him to the physician."

"—to... sir—?"   

"You heard me. Take Captain Lestrade to the physician and his assistants immediately."

Shapes loomed. Boots came close. As the ropes around him slackened, Greg's mind slackened too.

He sagged forward into grasping hands; his senses lurched.

"Tell them not to let him die," he heard—then nothing, for quite some time.

 

***

 

The whisper of fingertips along Greg's hairline drew him to the surface. He felt their coolness stir through his own ragged heat as if they loved him, and the sensation of being touched seemed to bring him into existence once more.

But something was wrong.

Everything pulsed and whirled. His thoughts slugged like they'd been sealed in a barrel and pitched overboard. He'd been given something. Somehow he could see through his skin, feel the wholeness of everything around him, and all of it was screaming at him—the light, the shapes, the smells. He wasn't ready.

He leant into the touch, whimpering. _Make it stop._

A voice somewhere murmured; the fingertips swept through his hair. He lay still as he was stroked, panting, trusting the touch to bring him through. The pulsing began to slow. The sharpness eased. Greg's thoughts slowly rolled, and his head rolled with them.

At last, as he tried to turn over in bed, he realised the fingertips were gone.

Without them keeping him afloat, he sank.

 

***

 

Voices hummed beneath his skin, soft and shadowy.

"—wearing off soon. He'll be woozy, though."

"Shall I go tell—?"

The voices blurred.

 

***

 

When Greg awoke again, it was for a little longer. His brain lurched as physical sensations began to register—dull, dampened pain almost everywhere; the hook of grasping hands beneath his back and under his legs; the ungainly sway of being carried. He tried to twist free with a groan, and discovered that his wrists and legs were bound.

_Smart,_ he supposed.

Exhausted by the attempt, he let himself go limp. His head swayed and jolted as they staggered with him.

Its motion nudged him out of consciousness again.

The next he knew, he was waking face-down on a hard surface, his cheek pressed flat against the polished wood. He attempted to get up. His legs pulled fruitlessly against ropes, bound to what he now realised was a heavy table; his arms had been secured above his head, wrists crossed and roped into place.

As he panted in quiet panic, he twisted his head to one side. A haze of useless shapes and shadows appeared. Clusters of candles picked out in his vision, glowing and fluttering in the gloom. From all around there came the mumbled creaks and crunches and sighs of a ship at sea.

_Alive,_ he told himself, slowing his heart. _Alive for a reason. Still alive._

"Are you conscious?" came a male voice, in an accent of educated English.

Greg swallowed, saying nothing.

A shape stirred across the cabin. He watched the man get to his feet, a silhouette whose details Greg's eyes couldn't clarify at a distance. As the figure came closer, leather boots treading softly over the boards, he passed into the reach of the candles.

Greg tightened his grip upon his bindings.

Most pirate captains of his experience aspired towards a certain look—a sort of chaotic authority, glimpses of the gentlemanly run through with a streak of the dangerous, all of it drawn together to ensure they would be neither overlooked nor forgotten.

This one had mastered the art.

Nature had endowed him with advantageous beginnings, red hair and a short-kept beard, shrewd grey eyes, with a certain pale haughtiness of features. Greg couldn't quite suppress the thought that if this had been a shipmate of his, not a damn pirate, he'd have been seeking him out after dark. The pirate was tall in stature and he wore it well. It suited his long black gentleman's coat, trimmed with silver brocade now catching in the candlelight. Beneath a black velvet vest, his linen shirt was surprisingly clean, his necktie knotted with precision beneath his chin. His boots fit properly, right to the knee.

Greg took the appearance, and the clothing, and the voice, and combined them into a conclusion. It seemed he was in the presence of a rare creature: one of those pirate commanders not aping the aristocracy, but fallen from their hallowed ranks.

He kept his expression closed as the captain came towards him. Whether the man had been sung his lullabies by a bawdy house slut or a duchess, and whether nature had made him a sight for sore eyes or not, it made no difference. He'd taken to piracy; he was filth.

The captain looked down at Greg in silence, his gaze calm with quiet fascination.

Greg's heart thudded, gazing back. "Who the hell are you?" he said.

The captain merely hummed.

"Rather rude," he said, "to greet an old friend so unkindly... especially as you've been waiting such a long time to make my acquaintance."

Greg gritted his teeth. "I don't make friends with fucking pirates."

"Is there truly cause for profanity?"

"There's cause for _kicking your fucking head in,"_ Greg spat, wrenching at his ties, "the very _second_ I get free."

The captain gave him a faint smile, amused. "I'll make sure not to free you, then. Believe me, Lestrade, I'm well aware you'd have me embedded in the nearest wall in a matter of moments. We're currently bound for the nearest port to run a significant recruitment drive, thanks to you. You slaughtered half my crew."

"You're a _pirate,"_ Greg snarled, staring up at him. His chest rose and fell as he breathed. "I'm a _pirate hunter._ If you mess with me, I'll fuck you. That's how it works on the sea."

"Mm." The captain turned away. He moved over to a sideboard laden down with candles and bottles of wine, his every movement graceful, controlled. "Do you have any inkling as to who I am?"

"No. Of course I bloody don't." Greg watched, his heart pounding against the flat expanse of wood as the captain calmly poured himself a goblet of wine. "Tell me."

"You know my name," the captain said, "if not my face. A state of affairs I work rather hard to maintain... it's led to a much longer career than most of my cohorts."

"I didn't recognise the ship."

The captain's mouth curved. He drank, his smile flickering away.

"I change," he said. "Often. Another reason you've never caught me. I'm sure the glory which accompanies having a recognisable flagship is quite a dizzying narcotic, but it's also the surest route to a watery grave."

"Have I _tried_ to catch you?"

"Oh, yes." The captain curled a hand around the back of a nearby oak chair. "Many times," he added, pulling the chair closer, and arranged it with care within a few feet of Greg. As he sat down, he eased one leg across the other. "As it happens, Lestrade, you've barged your way into my endeavours on a number of occasions."

"I bet I have. Pirate hunter. It's my job. And what's this name I'd apparently recognise?"

The captain eyed him over the edge of his goblet, taking a slow sip.

"Curacao, for instance," he said. "Three years ago. I had my eye on a rather fat Spanish treasure galleon headed in from San Juan. It was carrying military payroll. We'd laid low off the coast for over a month. Your sudden arrival in Puerto Cabello meant I was forced to bid a hasty retreat. You cost me a hefty prize."

Greg said nothing, trying to think. He couldn't quite concentrate, painfully aware of the velvety voice and imperious glare doing things to him he didn't care to acknowledge.

"And in St Lucia," the captain went on, "the year after that, you actually had the audacity to _open fire_ on me... you were pursuing me from the scene of The Pentridge—do you recall? If I hadn't had the wind, you'd have caused me even more damage than you did..." His voice hardened. "And the damage you _did_ cause was considerable."

A suspicion began to kindle in Greg's mind. He listened as it grew, his breath shallowing, saying not a word.

"And the year after _that,"_ the captain added, as his eyes darkening, "you laid quite the pretty little trap for me... surely you remember, old friend. Rumours of a French sloop carrying wine from Guadeloupe to Leogane... you'd spotted my predilection for decent wine by then. Foolish of me not to see your bait for what it was. I'd not noticed you on my tail for some time, so assumed you'd shifted your predatory attentions to some other lucky gentleman. I'd grown... _lax."_

His jaw worked.

"To your advantage," he added, sweeping his tongue across his teeth.

Greg drew a silent breath.

"You're Mycroft Holmes." He tightened his grip upon the ropes. "You're dead. I sent your damn ship and everything in it to the bottom of the ocean. _I watched it go down."_

"A pity you didn't watch more closely," Holmes snapped, suddenly sharp, "or you would have seen me hurl myself through a bloody porthole the moment you downed my main mast." His face contorted as he shouted. _"I got wet, Lestrade._ I was forced _to swim._ I barely made it to land alive. And I have contemplated my revenge against you every single day and every night since."

Greg's stomach clenched. He turned it into a sneer, pulling at his ropes.

"You're gonna kill me because I forced you to swim?" he said. "That's what this is about?"

Holmes said nothing for a moment, watching him in silence.

He then downed the last of his wine.

"I'm not going to kill you, Lestrade." He reached for the bottle. "I want nothing less."

As he refilled his goblet, he said,

"I considered it when I spotted your ship... then realised I'd gain nothing by your death. Thanks to the little stunt you pulled in Leogane, sinking my ship and all of my assets, I'm not yet in a position to turn down gifts from the Almighty."

"'Gifts from the Almighty'?" Greg jeered, glad to hear himself sounding braver than he felt. "That's what you think I am?"

"Don't pout," Holmes said, coldly, "just because he favours me."

Greg spat towards Holmes's feet; it landed an inch short of his boots.

"You're _filth,"_ he snarled. "That's what _you_ are. You're a thief, and a pirate, and you're pathetic—and whatever you're planning to do with me, you'd better get on and do it. My patience is running out."

Holmes huffed. He rolled the edge of his cup against his lower lip.

"How unfortunate for you," he murmured. "My patience shows no signs of running dry. I've been tending it since you first took a shine to me." His eyes glittered, his gaze fixed on Greg's. "You've had plenty of opportunities to leave me alone with my endeavours, Lestrade. Now I'm afraid you need a lesson."

"A lesson?" Greg pulled at the ropes around his ankles; they held fast. "A lesson in what?"

"In how things work on the sea."

"What do you mean, 'how—'"

"You said it yourself not five minutes ago. I am a _pirate._ You are a _pirate hunter._ And if you mess with me, I shall fuck you."

Greg paused, staring into those sharp grey eyes. He felt his stomach twist; he ignored it, shifting, suddenly aware of his heart beating hard against the flat surface of the table.

Amused, Holmes took a sip of wine. "For heaven's sake. Don't look so worried. I'm not such a savage that I'd force myself upon you against your will."

Greg's pulse sped, disliking at once that his thoughts had flown there.

"Then—" he said. "Then what—"

"No no, Lestrade. When I force myself upon you, it will be entirely with your agreement."

Greg's teeth gritted. "Get fucked," he snapped.

"I'm afraid that's not one of the options I'm about to offer," Holmes said, recrossing his legs. "I've _been_ fucked, you see... repeatedly and rather hard." His eyes flashed. "By _you._ You've cost me money. You've cost me time. You've cost me men. Now it's your turn—and, because my noble blood has to count for something, I'm graciously allowing you to choose the manner and method of your fucking."

_Christ._ "Just cut my throat and be done with it, will you?"

"Again, I'm afraid that's not one of the options. Perhaps you could shut the fuck up," Holmes suggested, pleasantly, "and I can explain your choices to you? How does that sound?"

Greg said nothing, tightening his fists in vain against his ties.

"There," Holmes said, with a flat smile. "That's better, isn't it? Much more civilised."

He sat forwards in his chair, watching Greg with unconcealed enjoyment.

"Option one," he said, his eyes bright. "What I'll term _the literal option._ You lie there, think of England and try to keep your yammering to a minimum while I make use of you however I choose. I'll warn you it's been a long six months and not one of my crew has even vaguely taken my fancy. I have standards. _High_ standards. Just to sweeten this option for you, when we reach Nassau, I fully intend to stand on the deck of my ship and watch you leave—entirely unharmed, save your dignity. I _might_ throw you from a porthole and make you swim the last hundred metres. But either way, Lestrade... you'll limp away from me as I limped away from you, and we may consider ourselves even."

Greg said nothing, staring at the man in silence.

Holmes smiled, pleased.

"Option two," he said. "My crew carry you back to the brig, just as you are, unsullied and unblemished. When we arrive in Nassau, I'll make it known throughout my considerable network of contacts that a rather special auction is shortly to take place aboard my ship. I invite every pirate within a week's sail. I make a fortune selling you off to the highest bidder, more than enough to replenish my losses after the incident in Leogane—and frankly, Lestrade, what your new owner does to you once you leave my keeping, I couldn't care less."

_Jesus Christ._

"What's the third option?" Greg asked, his heart pounding.

Holmes raised an eyebrow. "I think you'll find a choice of two is more than generous."

"'Generous'?" Greg spat. "Piss off!"

"Might I remind you that you've attempted to murder me on multiple occasions?" Holmes said, with a scowl. "Until ten minutes ago, you thought you'd succeeded. I'm now offering you two different variants of 'walk away from me unharmed'. You should be thanking me in earnest."

Greg dug his fingers into the ropes around his hands, gripping them hard enough to hurt. Even in Nassau, there'd be fifty men who'd pay Holmes a fortune for him. With a week to get there, that number would double. He could imagine the sort of things they'd want to do to a pirate hunter of his reputation—and they'd have ideas of their own as well.

But then...

"How can I even be sure you'd let me go free?" he demanded, his breath tight. "You might use me then slit my throat anyway."

Holmes huffed.

"I might," he admitted. "You have no way of knowing. You'll simply have to trust me when I say that watching you stagger off my ship, still feeling the effects of my generosity, will satisfy me in ways your plush little arse never will."

Greg bit into his tongue. "So you're letting me pick between death and humiliation? That's it?"

Holmes brought his goblet to his lips. He considered his response for a moment.

"I do not like getting wet," he finally said.

_Christ almighty._ "You're some piece of work, you know that?"

"Spare me, Lestrade. We both know the only difference between you and I is that you carry a piece of paper saying the king believes you're a frightfully good boy. You're a pirate as much as me. Your prey of choice just happens to be other pirates."

"Get fucked." Greg drew a deep breath, tensing his wrists. "What if I refuse to pick?"

"Then you'll get both," Holmes said, calmly, as if nothing could be simpler. "I'll have to sell you as soiled goods, but I'm sure it won't impact your price too much."

"Why not just kill me?" Greg demanded. "Why toy with me? Why all this—"

"Lestrade..." Holmes interrupted, rolling his eyes with a sigh, "this is becoming the single most tedious transaction I've ever negotiated." He pushed back his chair, lifting himself wearily to his feet. Greg felt his lower body tense. "If I wanted you dead, I wouldn't have gone to considerable trouble _keeping you alive,_ would I? Now hurry the hell up and pick."

Greg said nothing, turning his head away. He faced the wall of Holmes's cabin as his thoughts raced. He didn't trust the man at all to honour any promise to release him—but then, he _did_ trust Holmes to honour the threat to sell him off to the highest bidder.

_Auctioned off like cattle,_ he thought. _Probably fucked by every pirate in Nassau, then battered and dumped. They'll slash my throat if I'm lucky. They'll keep me alive for weeks, if I'm not._

_Or..._

_Get used like a tavern slut by Mycroft Holmes._

Shutting his eyes, Greg supposed tavern sluts got up afterwards. They smoothed their skirts and walked away. If there was even the slightest chance that Holmes was telling the truth, and would release him in Nassau, it meant he could begin once more at the beginning: find a ship, find a crew.

Come after Holmes.

Repay the favour.

Greg shifted, his jaw tightening.

_Think of England._ He'd taken before. As a younger man, he'd been every queer sailor's wet dream—big-eyed and trusting, slim hips like a girl, thick hair to bury both hands in. He didn't remember it being much fun, but he'd still been able to climb the rigging next day.

_Better indignity than death._

"Do I hear the sound of a decision being made?" Holmes murmured. He poured himself another cup of wine.

Greg pressed his tongue into his cheek. "Get on with it," he muttered.

 


	2. Chainshot

"Arranging the auction, you mean?" Holmes said.

"No," Greg snapped. He tightened his grip on the ropes. "The other."

"You're saying that to apologise for sinking my ship," Holmes clarified, taking a drink, "slaughtering my crew, costing me a fortune and forcing me to swim for nearly twenty minutes, you're offering me your body to utilise as I wish?"

Greg's jaw worked. "Get on with it, for Christ's sake. I'm sick of hearing you talk."

Holmes came back over. His fingers curled beneath Greg's chin. They lifted his head, firmly; Holmes knelt down to see him better.

Pleased, his eyes glittering, he stroked the pad of his thumb along Greg's lower lip.

"A pity I can't trust you not to bite," he murmured, watching Greg's lip pull as he sipped his wine.

Greg swished his tongue around his mouth. "I dare you."

Holmes's chuckle raised the hair on the back of his neck. "Mm... an injury I'd rather not sustain. Fret not, Lestrade. You'll satisfy me just perfectly as you are." 

As he stood, moving out of sight, Greg closed his eyes. He laid his cheek upon the table and breathed in. 

"Are you used to bending over for someone?" Holmes asked.

Greg bit his tongue. He wouldn't be saying another word, nor making another sound, until this was over.

"I thought not," Holmes murmured, now somewhere else across the room. Greg frowned, trying not to think. He listened to the sound of boots returning across the floor, then there came a quiet clink as something was placed on the table beside him. He couldn't see what it was. "The stubborn silence is rather working for me, by the way... you should probably be aware I enjoy a challenge."

Greg said nothing. His pulse skittered as Holmes's hands rested upon his lower back, feeling the warmth of his skin through his shirt. They gently pushed the fabric up; his stomach gripped.

"You're magnificently formed for your age, aren't you?" Holmes remarked, easing his splayed fingertips down Greg's bare back. "If I could trust you to behave, I'd have liked to enjoy your front... then, a faceful of spit mid-coitus is so off-putting..."

"I'll do more than spit at you," Greg warned, attempting a snarl, "when I get my hands on you."

Holmes clucked his tongue. "Always so quick to anger," he murmured, hooked his fingers in Greg's breeches and pulled them down. Greg stiffened at once, biting into his cheek. He tried to concentrate on the feeling of the ropes around his wrists, not his breeches now lowered to mid-thigh, his arse exposed and spread open.  _ I'll live. I'll walk away. I'll come back and I'll make you sorry.  _ "Has it ever occurred to you that violence is a brutish and boring solution?"

"Fuck you." Greg bit down on the rest of what he wanted to say; he shut his eyes, tight. "Just do it. Burn in hell, Holmes."

Holmes's fingertips soothed gently over the pad of his arse—appraising, almost; settling. 

His voice, when he spoke, came rather soft.

"You're safe to relax, if you wish. I shan't hurt you. Six months has taken its time to pass, and I'm sure you struggle to connect as much as I do. I'll be here for a while." 

Heart pounding, Greg felt him kneel down. Warm hands parted his arse cheeks, rubbing.

Before he could even draw breath, a long wet stripe slid from his bollocks to his tailbone. 

The first half of a gasp burst from his mouth. He bit down into it, shocked. He felt Holmes hum, nuzzling into his bollocks and mouthing at them gently; another lazy stripe made him twitch. 

"Christ—fuck—" Greg bit down harder.  _ Don't. Stop. Don't let it feel good.  _ Holmes's tongue wound a slow path like a serpent between his cheeks, warm and slick, taking its sweet time to reach wherever it was going. At his hole, he felt it pause and swirl around him, tracing the knot of muscle.  _ Fuck. Jesus. Fucking fuck.  _ With a surge of heat to his face, Greg realised his breath had drawn ragged in his attempts to stay silent.

He clamped down on his gasps, digging his fingers into his wrist ties.

Holmes's tongue kept on lapping at him, slowly licking between his legs. Each stroke seemed to come gentler than the last—coaxing him, soothing him, slow and indulgent licks. As he shuddered, shifting nervously beneath the sensation, the ties around his ankles held him fast. He wasn't going anywhere.  _ 'I'll be here for a while.' _

_ Fuck. _

He almost wished Holmes had just started to bugger him. He'd have known how to deal with that. Whatever  _ this  _ was, it was wrecking him with every velvety sweep of tongue—and the faint grunts from his mouth were getting harder to hold in. Holmes's hand appeared between his legs, cupping and massaging his hanging bollocks as the tongue began a lazy and luxurious spiral around his arsehole.  _ Fuck, fuck, fuck—  _

At its centre, it teased a little press—a little nudge—and as Greg realised he was about to be fucked by Holmes's tongue, he let out a noise he'd never heard himself make in his life. He swore, shaking and straining his shoulder muscles to focus on that ache instead, determined he wouldn't start keening like some back-alley strumpet. 

Holmes hummed; his tongue eased back to its idle up-and-down.

Greg forced himself to breathe, trying to steady. Holmes wanted him to disgrace himself—tormenting Greg with this depravity, trying to prove he too was depraved—he wouldn't do it. He wouldn't give that satisfaction. He could feel his cock stiffening against the table edge, but it didn't matter. It didn't mean anything. Tugging at his bonds, Greg realised with a panicked lurch that the constriction of his ankles made the delicate lapping of his arse feel better.  _ Spread open. Licked. Wet.  _

_ Oh, shit. _

_ Shit, fuck—  _

Holmes's tongue swirled back to his arsehole, circling and pressing.

"F-Fuck—oh, fuck—" Greg screwed his eyes shut, biting into both his cheeks.  _ I won't. You bastard, I won't.  _ Holmes chuckled softly; his tongue began to press. It breached Greg's body—wormed its way inside him, slow—wet, soft and pointed, nuzzling gently into his arse. He felt it flicker around within him, circling. 

As the slick little dips became purposeful thrusts, Greg jerked against his ties. He dragged in a lungful of air and clenched around it, shaking, pulling at the ropes to stop himself from rutting against the table edge. He'd never wanted to moan so badly in his life.  _ 'I'll be here for a while.'  _ How long was a while? As the tongue withdrew, Greg heard himself exhale like a wounded bull. He tried not to pant, trembling as Holmes kissed and nuzzled into the globes of his arse, biting gently, nuzzling at the crease of his thighs.

"Has no-one ever done this for you?" Holmes murmured—then parted his cheeks and dove back in. 

Cross-eyed, Greg planted his forehead against the wood. He tried to count his way through it. He reached the mid-thirties before he realised he'd started whimpering in his distraction and swallowed, hard. 

Holmes licked his way downwards, lapping for a while at his bollocks. They'd drawn tight; Greg felt full and heavy with it already. He wasn't sure when he'd started sweating. 

"If you don't spend while I'm fucking you," he murmured, and Greg felt a wave of fresh heat blister through his entire body, "I'll finish you this way." A single fingertip traced up the underside of his cock. "Mm? You seem to like it."

Greg bit down into his whimper, feeling his cock twitch. Holmes laved a last tender lick over his arsehole.

As he stood, leaning over Greg's back, Greg's body clenched in instinct. 

Holmes chuckled, nosing against the back of his neck.

"No," he soothed. "Not quite yet. I'll tell you." He picked up whatever he'd placed at Greg's side. "Something else before that."

_ Christ have mercy on me.  _ "W-What?"

He felt Holmes's mouth curve against his neck. "Lavender oil." He shifted his weight a little, fingertips seeking down the valley of Greg's arse. Greg realised with a jolt of the heart that their slickness wasn't pure saliva. The fragrance came at last to his attention. He shivered, biting into his tongue. "Two, mm? Tell me if uncomfortable..."

As Holmes's fingers eased their way into his arse, Greg pulled in silence at his ropes. It didn't hurt—the attentions of his tongue had seen to that—but the surge of longing it evoked wasn't something he'd permit himself to feel. 

This wasn't happening. 

He wasn't trembling like a leaf as Holmes slicked him ready for sex.

"There..." Holmes murmured, soft, so close he couldn't possibly miss Greg's laboured breathing. His other hand rumpled through Greg's hair, easing it back from the sweat on his forehead. "Lord, you're tight..."

Greg's throat muscles clenched. He swallowed, loosening them, and said not a word as Holmes's fingers eased deeper.

"Would you still like to know why I haven't simply killed you?" Holmes soothed in his ear, voice low. Greg forced his focus onto his breathing, slowly in and slowly out. "Because I like beautiful men... and I like men who defy me. There aren't nearly enough of them around. You transpire to be quite the prize of both."

"F-Fuck off."

"Mm? If you wish."

As Holmes's fingers withdrew from his body, Greg tensed. 

"W-Wait—" he gasped out, before he could stop himself. His breath caught. Silence fell.

Holmes's smirk curved against his jaw. 

"Something the matter?" the pirate crooned, gently rubbing his arsehole.

Greg clamped back into silence, shaking.

As Holmes began to lick began his earlobe, his tremors deepened.

"Shall I continue?" Holmes whispered, his voice as smooth as the strokes of his tongue. "Would you like that?"

Greg bit down into his lip. He closed his eyes, and in response arched his hips back, pushing against the fingers circling his hole. They dipped inside him, pressing.

A moan shook itself from his throat.

"Good," Holmes murmured, sinking them deep once more, and Greg clung to his ropes as they began to thrust. "To think you wanted me to cut your throat... isn't this better, mm? Giving over to me... letting me have what I want..."

_ Bastard,  _ Greg thought, panting. His hips bucked against the table in frustration. _ Bastard, bastard—  _

Holmes gave a low chuckle. "I am indeed a bastard, Lestrade. I'm glad we could meet at last for me to demonstrate."

Greg opened his mouth to respond, cut off as Holmes's fingers found somewhere inside him that made his belly clench with enjoyment. He moaned again, gasping out a stream of profanity against the table. Holmes began to massage the spot he'd discovered, deep and delicious presses which drew Greg's balls ever tighter into his body. He struggled, heaving at the ropes. His cock throbbed.

Holmes sighed with quiet contentment into his hair.

"I should have had them tether you to my bed," he murmured, still fingerfucking Greg as Greg swore. "Imagine the night we could have had... the mess you'd have made of my sheets. I think you're almost ready now, aren't you?"

_ Oh god. Oh fuck. _

"Shhh... don't clench," Holmes said, softly, easing out his fingers. "I'll go slowly." For a few moments his touch was gone, missing from Greg's body. Greg's pulse sped wildly out of control as he picked up on the sound of slicking oil. Holmes's hand then wrapped around his hip, holding him in place, and something far thicker than fingers nosed at Greg's arsehole. His sphincter tightened as his heart leapt. "Breathe in for me," Holmes murmured. "Nice and slow."

Greg pressed his cheek flat to the table. He swallowed back a mouthful of spit and began to inhale.

As Holmes's cock pushed its way into his body, it felt like being stretched to the seams. He moaned, quivering, glad of the ropes to pull against, the solidity of the surface beneath him. Holmes's tongue stroked behind his ear, slow and easy stripes as he breathed—rewarding him, he thought, soothing him as he shook. 

Several inches in, a bite of pain made him twitch. His pulse skipped. 

Holmes paused at once; his fingertips brushed back over Greg's forehead.

"Breathe," he murmured. As if enslaved to his command, Greg's lungs breathed. He felt the pain gently subside as they filled. "There... that's it... you're doing beautifully."

_ God almighty.  _ "F-Fuck—"

"Mm, I know..." Holmes's fingertips grazed up his left arm, following it all the way to the ropes secured around his wrists. His hand wrapped over the back of Greg's. With a last stroke of Greg's hair, he repeated the motion with his right hand, settling his weight fully on Greg's back. Greg swallowed thickly, back muscles tensing as he gripped his ropes and Holmes gripped him. "More?" the pirate soothed.

Greg exhaled, shaking. He'd lost enough of his dignity here. A little more wouldn't hurt him now. He nodded, weak, and with a final hitch in his breath he felt the last few inches slide home into his body. 

Pinned, panting, he concentrated on the heat of Holmes's breath upon his neck; the rasp of expensive black velvet against his bare back; the knot of their fingers as they gripped each other.

"Mmhm... you feel divine..." As he stirred inside Greg, slicking them both, Holmes's breath roughened. "Yes," he whispered, shivering,  _ "perfect," _ and sank his teeth into the meat of Greg's shoulder. Greg cried out, arching back. Holmes bit down, sucking at the mark as he started to thrust.

How long it went on, Greg didn't know. He'd never needed someone to keep fucking him so badly. In the back of his mind, he had a vague recollection of previous times he'd done this—willing them to hurry up, or at least rub his cock and make this worth it for him. As Holmes fucked him, he barely even remembered he  _ had  _ a cock. He was too focused on Holmes's. The rhythmic slap of their skin sounded filthier than anything he'd ever heard, softened by Holmes's hungry grunts of pleasure in his ear, his own shallow panting, the faint moans and whimpers being teased out of his mouth. Holmes seemed to delight in every one of them, shivering. He fucked Greg harder when Greg moaned for him; he bit into Greg's neck, wheedling out more whimpers by the minute. Soon Greg could feel his body contracting with enjoyment on almost every slam. The motion was slick and easy and satisfying, all that thickness stretching him open and stuffing him, his nipples rubbing against the fabric of his shirt as it rucked beneath him, his cock bumping in rhythm against the table edge. His ties held fast as he hauled at them, holding him just where Holmes needed him. 

At last, with a final dig of teeth into his neck, Holmes shuddered and levered his weight up off Greg's back. A hand wrapped around each of Greg's shoulders; they gripped, tight. Greg braced himself.

The first slam still took his breath. It escaped him next moment as a cry at the second hard thrust, then another, another, until Holmes was hammering into his prostate with enough force to make his body shake. Greg heaved at his ropes and howled with pleasure, screaming it out as Holmes fucked him like he wanted every bone in Greg's body to remember this feeling, every hair on Greg's head, every drop of blood in his veins. Holmes's urgent, guttural moans made his insides twist with excitement. There came a hoarse cry from behind him; Holmes's hands dug into his shoulders. Greg ached as he felt wet heat flood his insides, the last few slams spreading it and filling him.

As Holmes's cock slid out of him, it felt like having an organ removed. Greg moaned without shame against the table, his thighs trembling from the onslaught. 

Before he could breathe, two fingers stuffed inside him. 

He choked, arching his pelvis back with need.

"Good," Holmes panted, his voice rough with satisfaction. He bent down, kissing one of the bite marks he'd left upon Greg's neck as his fingers found the place Greg liked, circled it slickly then ground against it without mercy. "Yes, that's it... good. Scream for me. Show me.  _ Good." _

He wrapped his other arm beneath Greg's body, found his cock and squeezed.

"Spend," he breathed in Greg's ear, tugging at him fast and tight. "Spend this instant. Spill all over my hand, you defiant little slut. Do it like you mean it."

Greg came in a half-shouted slew of blasphemy and pleas, throwing back his head as Holmes fingerfucked him through the throes, forcing every ounce and every drop of it to come thundering from his body. He dragged at the ropes in a desperate effort to get free; raking his fingers through Greg's hair, Holmes held him down.

As he came back to himself, his heart pounding what felt like its last against his ribs, Greg could barely speak. He groaned instead, his muscles molten and useless. Sweat glistened from his neck to the crevice of his inner thighs. He was drenched. He felt alive.

Holmes's fingers scrunched in the front of his hair, lolling his head to one side.

His mouth rasped across Greg's ear.

"We are now even," he whispered. "You are forgiven your trespasses, Lestrade."

_ Holy shit.  _

_ Holy fucking shit. _

Holmes's tongue soothed over the crest of Greg's ear, gentle and warm.

"Spend the rest of the journey to Nassau in my bed," he breathed. Greg shuddered, flushing all over. "I'll give you a month's wages when we get there. I'll take care of you, treat you well and feed you properly. You'll sleep with me at night and let me fuck you whenever I wish. Do you agree?"

Greg felt his heart squeeze up into his throat. 

"I-I'm not a whore," he panted.

"No, but you are lonely. And you're tired of your rage being the only thing that makes you feel as if you're living." Holmes's teeth grazed the shell of his ear. "Deep calleth unto deep, Lestrade. Share my bed. Feel pleasure for a while."

"J-Jesus..." Greg dropped his forehead forward against the desk with a thunk, his insides writhing. He let himself pant as Holmes's weight eased off him. "Do you mean it?"

Holmes knelt to undo the ropes around his ankles. "Which part?"

Greg's heart thudded. 

"You'll let me go free in Nassau?" he said.

"Yes. You'll be released with the crew. What you do then is your own business."

Still panting, Greg craned his head over one shoulder to watch. He almost didn't dare to voice it. "You... you know I'll come after you—don't you? I'm not gonna stop hunting you, just 'cause you..."

"So be it," the pirate said, freeing his ankle and lowering it to the ground. "Come after me. I look forward to it." 

Greg said nothing, panting in silence as the rest of his ties were undone. He didn't know what he thought. He knew what he  _ felt:  _ that the sensation still echoing through his blood was more real and reassuring and animal than anything he'd felt in months, if not years. There'd always been girls in taverns—girls in quiet corners of dockyards. They blurred into one in his memory. He hated it. Barbers, pulling sore teeth for a coin or two. Only some of them liked to kiss, and the last few times he'd been distressingly aware it was the kissing he wanted, the hands in his hair, not the lifting of skirts.

This felt different. 

He was distressingly aware of that, too. 

At last, Holmes eased him up. "Slowly," he murmured, turning Greg, and his hands were warm as they soothed over Greg's back. "Take your time."

The softness of his voice caused something to snap. 

Greg's muscles reacted without needing his mind to guide them, seizing Holmes with both hands and throwing him backwards against the cabin wall. Holmes jerked; pain and panic flashed in his eyes. He scrabbled for the fists now buried in his clothing, dug his fingers into them and attempted to pry them off.

Greg pinned him into place, his grip hardening.

For a few seconds they simply panted, staring at each other. Greg watched the look of fear on Holmes's face numb into resolve, accepting his mistake. 

"I've hunted you for years," he snarled, searching Holmes's gaze. "I've stalked you for a thousand miles. Not once laid eyes upon your face. And you think you can—inside my skin, once—make me feel—and you think that's enough, do you? You think I'll just lay it all aside for a week?"

Holmes didn't move. 

Greg felt his heart twist, tight.

"Why didn't you kill me?" he breathed. "Why'd you get your physician to save my life?"

Holmes thought he was about to kill him. Greg could see it in his eyes, pale and distressed, the rest of his face set in forceful calm. He watched Holmes's throat muscles work.

"Deep calleth unto deep," Holmes said.

Greg's stomach pulled. "You're lonely too."

"I am weary. Bored." Holmes's eyes shut. "I wanted to see your face," he said, his chest rising under Greg's closed fists. "When I saw it, I wanted you to see mine. I'd waited long enough." He shivered, inhaling. "We are old friends, Lestrade. No-one better to be weary with."

Greg's jaw worked. 

He tightened his fists, leaning close. 

As they kissed, Mycroft's hands buried in his hair. He tore two buttons from Mycroft's vest in the rush to remove it. Somewhere in the blur Greg felt the back of his knees hit the edge of a bed, and they sank beneath its surface together—panting, fighting, breathing hate and need. 

 


	3. Ballast

"How did you come to your trade?"

Greg brought the goblet to his mouth, drinking slow and deep before he answered. He'd long since lost track of time; whether it was night or day, he didn't know. He didn't care, either. The warm tangle of their limbs had taken most other priorities out of his head.

"It wasn't meant to be this one," he said, as he moved the goblet safely to the bedside. "My father owned an inn on Martinique. I grew up there. Helping out as soon as I could carry a mug of ale."

"Your mother lived there, too?"

"She did." Greg settled himself upon Mycroft's chest, placing his ear to his heart. "When I was seventeen, a ship docked into the harbour. Ship with red sails. They all came pouring off it into our inn, fists full of gold and eager to spend it... my mother didn't like the look of them. Told my father to turn them away." Greg closed his eyes. "My father didn't listen."

Mycroft listened in silence, fingertips trailing over the back of his neck.

"By sunset, they were so pissed that most of them couldn't string a sentence anymore. They carried on drinking anyway. Started getting rowdy. My father sent my mother off upstairs for her own safety. Not long after, some of them kicked off... fighting each other. God knows what about. They got to throwing chairs, smashing things. Like a fool, I thought I'd intervene."

Mycroft's fingers eased up into his hair, stroking.

"Didn't get three words out before something clonked me on the back of the skull," Greg said, dully. "Heard my father yell, but... next morning I woke up on the deck of a pirate ship, miles out to sea. They told me I'd have to work my passage to Cartagena. Nearly a year before we got there. Spent all my gold on the first ship back to Martinique."

"Back to your parents?"

Greg said nothing for a moment. He sat up a little, reaching for the wine.

When he'd finished the goblet, he said, wiping his mouth,

"Arrived to find it was ashes. Burned to the ground. They'd taken me and torched the place, my parents still inside." He took Mycroft's chest as his pillow once more, closing his eyes as slow fingertips soothed across his shoulders. "None of them said a thing. Not one of them. They watched me work my passage, knowing what I'd find when I got back... probably thinking to themselves what a laugh it'd be."

Mycroft began to rub the nape of his neck.

"Didn't like that someone could do that to honest people," Greg finished, his eyes still closed. "I signed on with a pirate hunter's crew before the week was out... I'd spent time with pirates, so I knew the tricks. Knew the tactics. Worked my way up. Here endeth the lesson."

The quiet wrapped around them, holding them within its folds.

"What about you?" Greg asked, with a humourless smile. "Did you burn an inn to the ground one night and get a taste for it?"

"I did not." Mycroft reached out to the bedside, idly picking a few grapes from the bunch sitting on a platter there. They'd grazed on it for several hours now, two sharks stripping a whale. "My father was an officer of note in the English navy. It seemed only proper that I should follow in his footsteps. I joined his ship to learn from his good example... within twelve months, he was viciously mutinied."

He reached down, slipping a grape into Greg's open mouth.

"The mutineers took the natural step of pairing me with him," he said, as calmly as if they were discussing the wind or the tide. "We were both sold to a slaver at the first opportunity."

"Holy hell." Greg's mouth spoke before his brain could stop it. "I'm—I'm sorry."

"Kind of you, but unnecessary. I don't blame the mutineers in the least." Mycroft fed him another grape, stroking his lips as he ate it. "They didn't do anything I hadn't dreamed of doing to my father myself. I only wished they'd sought me out."

"You—what?"

"The savage levels of discipline my father kept aboard his ship would have inspired any human soul to mutiny. Tragically, speak to any English sailor and you'll find he wasn't an isolated case... if anything, he could be taken as the standard. Lashings and beatings for the slightest misconduct, whether real or imagined. Rations a pig wouldn't be expected to live on. Worked to the bone each day without fail. He made blatant attempts to dock their wages. I'm only shocked they obeyed him for as long as they did."

Another grape eased itself inside Greg's mouth.

"After several weeks of backbreaking work beneath the sun," Mycroft went on, absently, "I managed to escape the labour camp. I joined the first ship I could and began to earn gold by any means at my disposal. I'll admit I balked a little when I first agreed to serve beneath a pirate flag... but within a summer or two, I'd realised they were vastly preferable to other merchants. I started seeking them out."

"Are you serious?"

"Entirely," Mycroft said. "Proceedings were divided fairly at the end of every voyage. Captains were elected and replaced by vote, and their powers kept in check by a crew-elected quartermaster. I worked on ships where constitutions were drawn up and signed before each voyage, outlining distribution of plunder and meals, as well as compensation for injured sailors... my crew now sign something similar when they join my vessels."

Greg stayed silent for some time, listening to Mycroft's heart as it thumped.

"That's not what I experienced," he said.

"On how many pirate vessels have you served?" Mycroft asked, with curiosity.

"One," Greg said, annoyed. "One was enough."

"Mm. If it helps, I imagine the captain who took you led a short and brutish life. Those manner of vessels never last." Mycroft slipped another grape into his mouth. "Better to pay a crew fairly, feed them well and keep to one's word. Happy men make better sailors. Better sailors lead to happier outcomes, better takings and higher wages... which lead to happy men. The cycle continues."

Greg said nothing for a moment, trying not to think as he chewed.

"It's wrong to take what isn't yours," he said at last. "It's wrong to rob innocent people for your own gain."

"Is this an apology?"

"No," Greg said, frowning. "What've I got to apologise for?"

"Sinking my ship," Mycroft said, "in Leogane. You took everything from me."

"And you took it all from _other people."_

"Who were granted it by the Almighty?" Mycroft inquired. "It floated down to them from the heavens, wrapped with a ribbon and a certificate of legal ownership? If you think the first instance of theft in the chain of international commerce is when a pirate enters the scene, Lestrade, I'm afraid you'll have to widen your definition of 'pirate'."

"A _pirate,"_ Greg said, his jaw set, "is someone who sees another man's property, wants it and takes it."

"It is different, of course, if that property is seized under the authority of a crown or a navy or a church... then it is merely... justice? God's will? I'm never quite certain how that's ever justified. Then, I can see how it's comforting to trust in the powers that be, delegating to them that wriggly responsibility in deciding which actions are right and which are wrong..."

Mycroft stretched, dropping a grape into his mouth.

"Quite the spectacular scam they've pulled with it, I must say. A stroke of genius. The establishment of an apparently eternal truth: that _the way things are_ is very naturally the foundation for _the way things should be,_ and that any decent man would die defending such a noble truth. That this system ensures the indentured rich may continue to live in comfort and freedom, while the poor struggle blindly to—"

"Right," Greg snapped, biting his tongue. "Fine, okay. I get it."

 _"Do_ you get it?"

"I get that _theft is wrong,"_ Greg said, "and I get that the second you start questioning that, your morals get as bandy-legged as a Santo Domingo whore."

Mycroft hummed. "And in a world where _everything_ is arguably theft...?"

"You're too fucking smart." Greg pushed onto his elbows, shifted closer and took hold of the bastard's jaw. "Shut the hell up," he said, seizing his mouth to kiss him. Mycroft's fingers dug with pleasure into his hips. Between flashes of tongue, Greg hissed against his mouth. "Get the fuck inside me and get out of my head."

Mycroft threw him over onto his back.

As his cock crammed inside Greg, Greg hissed and raked red stripes across his shoulders.

Mycroft's lips stroked across his gasping mouth.

"I'm sorry you lost your parents," he murmured.

Greg's head reeled. He clamped down on it, swallowing.

"Hard," he said, and locked his thighs around the pirate's waist. _"Now."_

 

***

 

The inscription glittered as the candlelight rolled its way around the band.

 _"Luceo non uro,"_ Greg murmured. He glanced up at Mycroft from the bed with the ring between his fingertips, watching him smooth down his coat. "What does it mean?"

Mycroft regarded him with mild amusement.

 _"I shine,"_ he said. _"I do not burn."_ He reached out a hand, palm flat, for the ring. "Thank you."

Mouth curving, Greg slid the ring onto his own middle finger. It fit. He rolled onto his back, toying with the thick gold band as he gazed up at Mycroft, the sheets strewn haphazardly across his hips.

Mycroft's eyes gleamed.

He approached the bed in three slow footsteps and presented his open palm. _Give it,_ his expression said, one fractional lift of an eyebrow.

Greg turned the ring around his finger, waiting.

"I do believe you're goading me," Mycroft murmured, as he rested one knee upon the bed.

Greg bit his lip. "I do believe it's working." His pupils grew as Mycroft leant down towards him, took his chin in one hand and kissed him soundly, filling Greg's mouth with his tongue.

As they parted, Greg's heart thundered against his ribs.

"Give it to me," Mycroft breathed against his mouth, "or swim to Nassau."

Greg smiled, unphased. "Can't suck your cock if I'm in the sea."

"Mm. I suppose you can't, can you? A shame to waste such a talent." Mycroft's fingers tightened around his chin. "Give it to me this instant."

"Nah," Greg murmured. He let his voice ease low, his eyes soft. "M'gonna keep it for the day. You can look at the space on your hand and remember where it is."

Mycroft moved his tongue across his teeth, amused. "You will behave yourself in my cabin while I'm absent," he said.

"Will I?"

"Mm. Otherwise you'll behave yourself in the brig."

Greg stirred beneath the sheet, smiling wider. "I love your empty threats. I like the hollow sound they make as they hit the floor."

"I half expect to return and find you fucking the furniture," Mycroft murmured. "Demanding little whore that you are."

"Better come back throughout the day and keep me occupied then, hadn't you?"

Mycroft smirked. He eased a hand down Greg's body, cupped his groin through the sheet and squeezed.

Greg shivered, his mouth dropping open.

"I have a ship to run," Mycroft murmured, and kissed him. As they pulled apart, he stepped back from the bed. "Behave. I'm locking you in."

 

***

 

In the afternoon, bored, Greg took to mischief. He waited until the first hint of sunset began to spill across the sky, retrieved the lavender oil from by the bed and sprawled himself across Mycroft's desk on his back, where he spent almost twenty minutes slicking himself with his fingers.

By the time the door unlocked, he was on the verge of ruin.

Mycroft surveyed the sight awaiting him in silence. He relocked the door, saying not a word, and came over.

He filled Greg in a single stroke.

As Greg cried out, reaching in desperation for his own cock, Mycroft seized both his hands.

"Oh, no," he murmured, pinning them to the desk as Greg struggled. "No, I very much think not. You'll get what you need from me, or not at all."

Greg arched, panting.

"Fuck me," he whined. "Fuck me—fuck me _please—"_

 

***

 

Each new day passed much like the last. Greg slept for the hours that Mycroft was away, comfortable and warm wrapped in sheets which smelled of sex. From time to time he awoke to find hands on his body, Mycroft's weight easing on top of him, Mycroft's mouth searching with hunger for his own. Sometimes they didn't even speak. They simply loosened Mycroft's clothes and fucked like animals for a few perfect minutes, moaning, rutting and panting in search of relief, fingers scrunching tight in each other's hair. Mycroft never left until Greg had come. When he'd gone, food and wine usually appeared, fetched by a round-faced cabin boy who kept his eyes to the floor at all times.

Greg hadn't eaten so well in twenty years.

He doubted he'd ever eat so well again.

At night, they laid awake and talked. Conversation eased into sex without a breath. Sometimes a quiet flash in Mycroft's eyes was all it took—some softer note in his laughter, some clever turn of phrase—Greg's cock needed little excuse. Something about seeing Mycroft's face contort with pleasure set his soul alight. He liked watching every tightened line finally ease into relief. He liked the grasping of Mycroft's hands at his hips; he liked the way Mycroft kissed him when they were fucking.

He got good at making Mycroft come.

Mycroft got good at making him wait.

When they'd exhausted each other into the small hours, they slept like hunting dogs in a pile by the fire—always touching, always skin.

 

***

 

Sleepily Greg watched as Mycroft's fingertips trailed an idle path along his forearm. They caressed his wrist, painting a circle of morning sunlight around his pulse, then slipped up into his palm.

As he realised where they were going, he grinned and curled his fingers shut, guarding the ring with his thumb.

"Wretch," Mycroft murmured against his throat. He bit Greg gently, a little nip of reprimand. "Aid my memory. What is that term we use for someone who takes property from another by force at sea? I can't quite recall."

"I didn't take it by force," Greg said. He grinned up at the ceiling as Mycroft's hands parted his thighs. "You left it unguarded and I helped myself."

"Mnh... I note you've left something of your own unguarded at this time."

"Yeah?" As Mycroft began to kiss his way downwards, Greg shivered and let his hips roll up. "Maybe you should help yourself."

A lazy lick rasped across his stirring cock.

"If I sate you before I leave," Mycroft murmured, and cosied two fingers into Greg's body, wet already with the night's exhaustive sex, "will you relinquish my ring?"

Greg moaned his acquiescence as the fingers started to fuck him, rocking up his hips with hope. Mycroft's mouth wrapped around his cock; his hands reached for Greg's, guiding them into his hair.

Half an hour later, dazed in his afterglow, Greg felt Mycroft's fingertips slide up his arm again.

He smirked, wrapping his hand tight shut.

"Wretch," Mycroft breathed against his heart.

Greg stretched, grinning from ear to ear as he fanned his toes beneath the sheet. "You said 'sate'," he crooned. "I'm spent, not sated. 'Sated' means I'm done with you. Don't want anymore."

Mycroft hummed with displeasure, nuzzling into his neck. "And that isn't yet the case, is it?"

The giddy thumping of Greg's heart filled his body. "Nowhere near."

 

***

 

The best times began in the night—asleep one moment, heavy and warm and safe; the next, hands roaming with hunger across the front of his body.

"I want you," Mycroft breathed into his hair, pushing up against his arse from behind. Greg groaned at the rasp of his cock, engorged already and inviting. "I dreamed I fucked you. You were glorious."

Greg shivered, rutting back. "Wasn't a dream."

Mycroft eased him onto his front. The huff of humour between his shoulders made him smile.

"Spread for me," Mycroft whispered, and Greg did as he was told, hot-skinned already and trembling as Mycroft reached for the glass bottle of oil on the bedside. "Mhm. So willing for me. So eager."

"Mm hmm..." Greg bit into his lip as he watched Mycroft pouring oil out into his palm. "That's a lot."

"I want you for a while," Mycroft said. His eyes met Greg's, soft and dark. "I want to... enjoy you."

Greg's pulse sped.

"Y-Yeah?" He arched his hips up, pressing his cheek against the pillow. He listened to Mycroft slicking his cock with a hand. "Fuck me slow," he whispered. "Have me. Make me beg you."

Mycroft shuddered, stroking his thighs further apart. The wet press of his prick took Greg's breath. He gripped the pillow and moaned softly as Mycroft eased into him, inch by inch, taking his time.

The first slow, smooth thrust made him gasp.

"Is your prostate the size of the moon?" Mycroft hummed, hands wrapping either side of his hips.

Greg pressed back into the lazy fucking, jolts of pleasure sparking up his spine. "I-It is now."

Somehow, he felt Mycroft grin. He didn't know how he knew it was there—some flash through their connection, something in the tightening of Mycroft's fingers—but he knew for certain.

"Happy to oblige," Mycroft said, and Greg could hear it in his voice, and pleasure began to fizz through his abdomen as the lazy pushes inside him deepened. Heat broke out in flushes across his skin. His cock ached beneath him, untouched and ignored.

He felt Mycroft shiver, savouring his heat and the slide of the oil.

"How, precisely," he murmured, "am I meant to fuck anyone again after you?"

Greg's heart strained.

"Don't bother," he suggested. He dug his fingers into the pillow. "Just remember."

 

***

 

"It was you... wasn't it?"

"Mm?"

"Before I woke up properly, someone was sitting with me. Stroking my head. I dunno what your physician had given me, but..."

"A dose of nearly everything, by that point. He sent his assistant up to my cabin, saying we were about to lose you." Mycroft's fingertips brushed low on Greg's belly, stroking the velvet-soft skin beneath his navel. "We did not."

Greg's heart tightened. "Why... did you...?"

It was a long time before Mycroft spoke.

"I realised I would miss you," he said. "I decided that if you were to die, I should be there. It seemed... fitting."

Greg felt a strange lump harden in his throat.

"But... Leogane," he said. "Your ship. I cost you everything."

An even longer stretch of time went by.

"I've heard that love and hate are two breaths from the same mouth," Mycroft murmured, at last. "One is merely more secure than the other." He hid a kiss amongst the scruff of Greg's hair. "We rarely drift out of hatred, after all."

 

***

 

When Mycroft slept, he seemed so much younger. He usually fell to sleep on his back or on his side, but would shift in the night onto his stomach—nuzzle into the pillow, murmur quiet things to his dreams now and then.

Greg spent hours each night spooned close to his back, listening to him sleep. He could soon picture the freckles on Mycroft's shoulder better than he could picture constellations.

He'd never kissed the night sky. He didn't know how it felt beneath his lips.

 

***

 

"You'd make quite a quartermaster, you know."

"Mm?"

"You have the temperament for it. Protective, honest. Good ones are hard to come by."

Greg snorted, stroking his fingers through the thin film of sweat on Mycroft's chest. "Am I meant to be flattered by hearing I'd be a good pirate?"

"You _are_ a good pirate. I'm saying you'd make a good quartermaster."

"I'm not a bloody pirate." Greg watched his fingertips trace a circle over Mycroft's heart, his spirits oddly dulled. "M'not an evil son of a bitch like you."

Mycroft chuckled, delighted by something.

"What?" Greg said, looking up at him. "I mean it."

"Mm, I know you do. That's what makes it quite so adorable."

Greg's forehead creased. "Piss off."

"As this is my cabin," Mycroft said, stretching, "I'll invite _you_ to piss off. You can find your own way to the brig, can't you?"

Greg's mouth twitched.

"I'm not a pirate," he said again, sitting up, and looked down at Mycroft with a frown. "And I'm not adorable. I know what I'm saying."

"You don't," Mycroft murmured. He pulled Greg on top of him properly, stroking both hands up his sides. "That the Almighty installed such a stubborn little head in such a delectable body is nothing short of a personal favour to me. You are delightfully addictive. I shall miss your skin."

Greg scowled, his heart tightening. "What is there to discuss?" he said. "You're a pirate. You're a professional bastard. End of conversation."

"Barely the start," Mycroft said, amused. He skimmed his fingertips up Greg's chest. "Come down here and kiss me."

"No," said Greg, and batted away the hands at his nipples. He sat back to glare down at Mycroft, now sitting astride his thighs. "What am I missing? Enlighten me."

"Our agreement was that I'd fuck you, not enlighten you. That's quite a hike of responsibility."

"Yeah? Maybe I want to be enlightened."

Mycroft huffed. "I doubt it," he said, "but if you insist..." He eased his hands to Greg's waist, admiring him for a moment. "Piracy, by its nature, is neither good nor evil. The very concepts of good and evil are rendered hollow by any mature and reasoned understanding of the world. Piracy is chaotic. Subversive. It lies counter to law, not morality."

Greg snorted. "You're saying piracy isn't a crime?"

Mycroft raised an eyebrow.

"It _is_ a crime," he said. "What I'm saying is that is not inherently _evil,_ nor is its suppression automatically _good."_

Greg almost laughed. He couldn't believe what he was hearing.

"You steal things!" he said. "You're a thief! Christ. You literally _take things from people by force._ How is that not—"

"Those men did not _steal_ your parents, Lestrade..." Mycroft watched him, waiting. "They killed them. The crime they committed against you was not piracy. It was murder."

Greg said nothing for some time, feeling cold settle through his system.

"You killed my crew," he said at last, his voice thick. "You murdered them."

"And you murdered mine." Mycroft lifted his eyebrows. "Neither of us live a bloodless life."

Greg's jaw set. He said nothing for a second, staring down at Mycroft in quiet fury.

"It's not evil," he said at last, "when it's used to hunt down other evil."

Mycroft took a moment to gather his patience, visibly withholding a sigh.

"What you term 'evil'," he said, "is properly defined as _self-interest,_ Lestrade. And anyone who advances their interests at the expense of another person can be accused of it. A merchant who sells goods for more than he bought them is evil. A woman who would feed her own child ahead of a stranger's is evil. A man who owns a warm house but locks his door at night when he knows beggars lie outside on the street is evil."

"Christ, that's not _evil._ That's just—"

"It is _socially tolerated_ evil," Mycroft said, raising an eyebrow. "It's permitted because we all want to do it. It is our condition. It is the heart of humanity. We mask its milder forms as reasonable self-interest, as the harmless desire to thrive and do well, but we are—every one of us—predators. And if one attempts to live in ignorance of that fact, one will sooner or later become prey."

Greg's heart gripped.

"Pirates burned my home down." He stared into Mycroft's eyes _._ "They stole my future. My family. My ability to live an innocent life. If I'm evil, it's you who made me that way."

Mycroft sighed. "God give me strength."

_"What?"_

"You were too young to understand the lesson you should have learned that day. You've processed it entirely incorrectly."

"Correct me, then!"

"You were a child. You were hopeful. You believed the world is inherently good, so you fixed your gaze upon 'the pirate' as evil, the aberration, the outlier—your nemesis, to be conquered and eradicated in your quest to restore some fabled perfect world to rights."

"What the fuck're you—"

"Your nemesis is not _'the pirate',_ Lestrade. We are not one kind, one species, one creature. I am not those men who took from you."

"No, but you do exactly what they—"

"If my men set light to an inn for no reason other than bloodlust, it would be _my hand_ tightening the rope about their necks. I'd then ask myself why I'd delayed their shore leave for so long that sadism brought them relief."

"Christ—as if this is about—"

"If your nemesis," Mycroft said, "is ever a category of people, _you have been manipulated by another category._ A category which wishes to use you as a tool to protect _their_ interests. Your nemesis should be 'those whom I know to have personally wronged me'. Your allies should be 'those whom I know to have aided me'. All else is blunt and bone-headed reductionism—and you are not a stupid man."

Greg realised with a lurch of distress that he wanted to argue. _I am a stupid man. I am blunt and bone-headed. I'll be as bone-fucking-headed and reductionist as I want._ He found himself unbreathing, his muscles drawn tight.

Mycroft's hands soothed up his sides. They slid around his back, pulling him down.

"Come here," he said.

Shaking, Greg laid down against his chest.

Slow fingers carded through his hair.

"You've taken your fists to my profession as those men took a torch to your inn," Mycroft said, his voice gentling. "It eased your anger for a time. I appreciate that... and I'm sure that blowing my ship to smithereens off Leogane helped you sleep soundly that night. But what about the next? What about all the nights to come?"

Greg said nothing, unable to speak.

Mycroft brushed back his hair. "May I give you a gift?" he murmured.

Greg didn't move.

Mycroft whispered the words in his ear.

"Chase what brings you pleasure, Gregory. Punish the individuals who cause you pain. Select your enemies as carefully as you'd select a lover, walk the world as if it belongs to you, and let the Almighty decide when you shall stop. No other life is worth living. Do you understand?"

Greg stayed silent, overwhelmed, every hair risen on the back of his neck.

Mycroft's fingers stroked them flat again.

Hours seemed to pass before Greg dared to speak.

"Did you mean it?" he asked.

Mycroft quietly kissed his temple. "Which of the many things I've said are you now querying?"

"That I'd make a good quartermaster."

Mycroft's fingertips idled down his back. Quietly they rounded his rump.

"I did mean it," he said, squeezing, and Greg dug his teeth into his lip. "A shame you're not interested in a career as a 'professional bastard'. For what it's worth, I meant my other important remark as well."

"W-Which one?" Greg said, swallowing as Mycroft pulled him into place, arranging their bellies together.

"That I shall miss your skin," Mycroft said. He leant up and caught Greg's mouth.

As they kissed, cocks nuzzling, growing thick, Greg felt his heart rate climb. _Will you miss the rest of me?_ He didn't dare to ask. He didn't dare to say. _I'll miss your voice. I'll miss your smell. I'll miss the way you hold your cup of wine for me to drink from._ He tried to say it with his hands, instead; he tried to say it with his thighs, gripping Mycroft's hips on either side as he rocked and softly moaned upon his cock. He tried to say it with his eyes. All week Mycroft had seemed to enjoy watching him, admiring his body as it moved against his own.

This time, Mycroft's eyes didn't leave his face.

They watched him feel, watched him moan—then in the sated quiet which followed, they watched him fall to sleep.

 

***

 

"Mycroft?"

"Mm?"

"Would you really have sold me?"

"Yes," Mycroft murmured in the darkness.

Greg inhaled. He reminded himself they'd be in Nassau in the morning, and took his chances. "Would you still sell me now?"

Mycroft's palm brushed his lower back beneath the sheets, stroking a quiet path across his skin.

"No," he said at last. "Not now."

Greg lifted his head.

They met eyes in the gloom, deepest brown on palest grey. Greg ran his fingers along the seam of Mycroft's lips, watching them part for him—watching them soften.

As he kissed Greg's fingertips, Mycroft's pupils grew.

"Keep the ring," he said. Greg curled his hand around it, his heart thudding; he touched the gold band gently with his thumb.

"Are you sure?"

"Mm." Mycroft brought it to his lips. It glinted as he kissed it, even in the darkness. "I will keep the space on my hand."

 


	4. Gunwale

When Greg woke, he found himself alone in an empty bed. He could hear gulls outside the window, the distant shouts of sailors on the docks.

They'd reached Nassau.

He waited for a while beneath the sunlit sheets, uncommonly afraid and unsure why.

After what felt like hours, with no sign of Mycroft, he retrieved his clothes from the chair where they'd spent the greater part of the last seven days. He pulled them on in silence, fingers fumbling over the buttons. They didn't seem to fit; they felt like someone else's, cold and crumpled against his skin. No food platter waited on the bedside. The wine pitcher was empty.

Quietly testing the door, he found it unlocked and open.

The daylight up on deck shrank his pupils into pinpricks. It took him several moments just to focus, looking around and finding hardly any crew to be seen. The gangway had been lowered; it seemed that shore leave had already begun.

_Why didn't you...?_

Wondering if he should return to Mycroft's cabin, Greg glanced nervously along the deck—and found a woman with long brown hair striding his way.

"Lestrade?" she said.

He said nothing, watching her approach.

From inside her coat she drew a hefty leather pouch. She tossed it to him. He barely caught it; his fingers wouldn't close properly.

"Captain Holmes says you're free to go," she said, crisply. "He wishes you well in your endeavours."

She turned on her heel to leave.

"Wait—" Greg moved after her, his heart hammering. "Wait, I—"

She stopped and looked around, one eyebrow lifting. "Is there a problem?"

Greg stared. He didn't know what to say. "W-Where is he?"

"Who?"

"Captain Holmes," he said, searching her face. His chest felt like it was about to tear down the middle. "He—I-I thought he was gonna—"

Her forehead creased with a pretty frown. "Captain Holmes is exceedingly busy," she told him, as if it were obvious. "He went ashore some hours ago to supervise the search for new recruits." As he continued to hover in front of her, her gaze gave a weary flicker. "Why?" she sighed. "Do you wish me to relay a message?"

Greg drew a breath.

"Yeah, I... could you—could you tell him—" _Jesus, how can I..._ "—tell him... I-I don't know. Just goodbye."

Her left eyebrow arched. Deadpan, she said, "I shall of course pass on the message, _'I don't know, just goodbye'._ Farewell Lestrade."

She turned, without another word, and strode away.

Halfway along the gangplank, Greg stopped and looked back.

He searched the ship with his eyes, his heart pounding, expecting to see him somewhere—suddenly needing to be watched as he walked away.

_All that... and you really just...?_

His stomach twisted as he realised, his chest flooding cold.

 _All what?_ he supposed. _Told me you'd let me go free. Told me you'd give me gold, if I spent the week in your bed._

_And that's that._

He gathered his fingers around the bag of money in his pocket. He hadn't even counted it—he didn't know how much there was.

It didn't matter.

Greg pulled his eyes from the ship, swallowing back the thickness in his throat.

_Pirate. Pirate hunter. That's how it works._

He made his way along the docks, unwatched, and vanished into the busy streets of Nassau.

 

***

 

She appeared as ever like a ghost—barely a creak of the door.

Mycroft didn't look up from his list of provisions.

"Has he gone?" he asked.

She took a moment to respond, hovering just beyond the edge of his vision. "Yes, sir."

"And you gave him the—?"

"Yes."

"Good," Mycroft said. He re-dipped his quill, keeping his eyes low as he continued to write. "Was there something you needed?"

"He... asked me to relay a message to you, sir."

Mycroft ignored the silent thud of his heart, keeping the sensation off his face. "And this message is?"

She hesitated. "He says goodbye, Captain Holmes."

Mycroft said nothing. He finished the line he was writing, watching the ink shine black and bright upon the parchment. _Black as your eyes, closing for me. Bright as day. Flashing as you laugh._

_Flashing as you argue._

He didn't want it to hurt. He didn't want it to be true. This was supposed to have been about vengeance—about punishment and pride. He'd stupidly believed there'd be no harm in making it a relief and a distraction for a while. He'd spent a week soaking his weary bones in the warmth of what he'd sold to himself as uncomplicated carnality—the brief indulgence of a lover who seemed to crave his skin as much as he craved theirs. God knew it had happened to him rarely enough.

Without his notice, the nights had grown long and deep. Those dark eyes—soft and wilful, always reaching for his own—had started to bring him comfort.

There was nothing more dangerous in this world.

 _Too close,_ he thought. The ache thickened in his throat. _Too deep._

_A lesson learned._

When he spoke, his voice didn't waver.

"Keep me updated on recruitment," he said, and reached numbly for last year's report of the same month. "Take any with experience and a decent attitude. Ensure they understand we have women and inverts aboard—women and inverts who are to be treated impeccably at all times."

"Yes, captain. I shall." She reached for the door. "I'll leave you to your provisions."

He waited until it had closed after her, reading the same line of the report four times. The soft snap echoed through the room.

In silence, he brushed the pad of his thumb against the empty base of one finger.

He rubbed until the tightness had eased in his throat.

 

***

 

Three days passed—though the nights were worse. Each time he laid down, he laid down with memories of warm arms reaching for him, a voice which murmured his name, fingers which stroked through his hair. He tried to sleep and laid awake instead, remembering all the hours they'd laid awake together.

Unable to rest, he worked.

Thoughts raged and roiled through his heart with every stroke of his quill. He couldn't bear to remember their intimacy—those precious soft sounds, the pull of hands always longing to have him closer. When he let himself remember, he was overcome with distress for his ignorance and ingratitude. _If I'd known,_ he thought, over and over, ripping himself apart with it, his hand shaking as he wrote in utter silence. He'd have pushed aside mere pleasure and relief. He'd have cradled, whispered and cherished instead. _Stay,_ he'd have begged. _Defy me. Understand me. Overlook what you believe I am._

But affection was granted, never seized—the one treasure no man could take by force.

And Lestrade was long gone now.

 _'A professional bastard',_ he'd said. _'An evil son of a bitch'._ Mycroft supposed he had little argument to make, except that every profession favoured an evil son of a bitch—and he, at least, excelled in his. The ocean was God's gambling table. Mycroft wagered his life on the strength of his ship, pitting it against those merchants reckless enough to sail pirate waters without armed escort, those captains who bragged loudly in taverns about the contents of their cargo holds. It was not personal; it was mathematics. It was the way of things. As sharks followed blood, Mycroft followed leaking gold.

But Lestrade had a nobler view of the world.

Even if Mycroft had reached for him—made some case, begged for comfort—he'd have found himself alone in these moments. _I'm beginning to love you,_ he'd have said, and it sounded pathetic even inside his own head. _I would like you to stay with me. Please._ He would not have gained a thing from such an encounter. He might as well have tried to convince the clouds to let him sail in them.

 _I kept my dignity,_ he told himself in the quietest hours of the night, aching around his empty arms. The moonlight on the sheets shone as cold as frost on the sea. _I kept my pride. I can nurse this grief unseen. It will ebb, and it will die—and afterwards, there will be peace._

His heart had never broken, after all. It remained whole and unharmed, unrejected, merely straining with distress for what it couldn't have. He'd sustained no wound.

This should not hurt.

 _'I will miss your skin,'_ he'd said.

_And I will grieve for your comfort._

 

***

 

The fourth day dawned in rain. It continued to rain without ceasing, and its drumming on the window seemed to soothe his softer pains. Mycroft worked, letting his eyes grow tired. In the morning, they would set sail from Nassau with a bolstered crew, replenished supplies and an empty cargo hold. The open sea, and its surplus of prey, would distract him.

Night had fallen before she appeared. She knew by instinct when to leave him alone; it was the trait he valued the most in her, from her considerable range of valuable traits.

"Captain?" she murmured, opening the door to his cabin.

He didn't look up from his letter, shrouded in candlelight and silence. "Mm?"

"The recruitment officer has a query. I wasn't sure how to proceed."

Mycroft frowned, still writing. "What manner of query?"

"We have a man wishing to serve who might cause some unrest within the crew."

 _God preserve my sanity._ "Has he experience?"

"Yes, sir. Plenty."

"Does he understand there are women and inverts aboard?"

"Yes, sir."

"Does he understand they're not to be harassed?"

"He does, sir."

"Then bring him aboard," Mycroft said, coldly, striking his next 't' rather hard, "and tell the recruitment officer to stop wasting my time. Whatever defect this man has, I do not care. If he can work and follow the rules, he's welcome. Anyone thinking of engaging in unrest can take the matter up with me."

"As it happens, captain, he _is_ aboard... and he's also asking to see you."

Mycroft's patience cracked. He put his quill aside, drew a breath, and raised his head to shout at her.

In the doorway beside her stood Lestrade.

Mycroft's mouth opened.

His assistant backed out of sight, shutting the door as she went.

"Hi," Lestrade murmured. He eased his hands into his pockets, pressing his tongue into his cheek. "Sorry it's late. They said you're leaving in the morning."

Mycroft had a feeling his heart might have stopped.

"What—why are you—" He found his sense, swallowed back his nonsense and spoke without emotion, straightening up in his chair. "What do you want?"

Lestrade held his gaze, his expression quiet. He had new clothing; he had new boots. "To cause unrest among your crew."

Mycroft said nothing, searching his face for any hint of a trick. He found none. "You—you wish to—"

"I've been thinking about things you said. Nearly booked passage to St Kitts... I got a foot on the gangway, and... I realised I'm not too proud to take your advice. Not anymore. So I'm here..." Lestrade hesitated, drawing in a breath. "Chasing what brings me pleasure."

Mycroft stared, not quite daring to think.

"That's... _you,"_ Lestrade clarified, with a flash of his dark eyes, "if I've not made it obvious."

Mycroft did his best to inhale without a sound, his pulse climbing skyward.

"A week ago," he said, holding Lestrade's gaze, "you wished me dead. Your principles and your profession pitted you against me as your sworn nemesis. You hardly know a thing about me. And yet now you're here to... to lay some sort of claim to me?"

Lestrade considered this, his eyes lowering.

"I know I want you," he said. He shrugged, breathing deep. "I know I can lie in bed with you for days and nights on end, and need nothing else in the world. I know your skin feels like paradise against mine. I know I stepped off your ship like I'd had the soul wrenched out of me, and I can't step onto another without feeling like I'm making a mistake... and now I'm standing here, looking at you again, and it feels like things might just be alright. I'd rather argue with you all night than make love to someone else. You're... in my bones, Mycroft."

Mycroft said nothing, incapable. His every nerve seemed to have taken flame.

Lestrade tried a smile, watching him quietly through the candles.

"So you're right," he said. "I _am_ here to lay claim to you. I want to sail with you. I'll work hard for you in the day, and keep your bed safe and warm at night—and I'm not going to share you. You'll be mine. Only mine, without condition. You can teach me about chaos and freedom. I'll teach you that you're not a god."

Mycroft's heart squeezed. It felt like daylight brimming in his chest; it felt like a breeze, filling his sails.

He watched the man for a moment, committing every detail to memory.

"Quite an accusation to aim," he said, "at your new captain."

Lestrade's eyes sparkled.

"Shame I know you like men who defy you," he said. "I've realised why, too."

"Oh?" Mycroft said. He leant back in his chair. "Enlighten me."

"You like someone to remind you now and then that behind the reputation, you're human. You're vulnerable. Sometimes you get cocky, then fuck up and have to swim. It does you a world of good." Lestrade tilted his head. "And as it happens, Captain Holmes, I've got plenty of experience."

"Mm. So you have."

"Then it looks like I'm reporting for duty, sir. Which bunk is mine?"

_Oh god._

_Oh, thank god._

"I believe we have one free in the brig," Mycroft said, as calmly as he could, and watched with a leaping heart as Lestrade came across the cabin towards him. His grip tightened on his quill. "Quite the discovery for my crew," he said, "that a notorious pirate hunter is now to serve among their ranks."

Lestrade stepped behind his desk, reached out and took the quill from his hand.

"They won't know my face," he said, laying the quill aside. Mycroft let it go. "False name, maybe. Or just own it... tell them I know better now. Tell them it's good enough for you."

As Lestrade climbed into his lap, Mycroft's heart and cock performed the same desperate throb at once. Strong hands cupped his face, tilting up his head. It left him reeling.

Lestrade's lips brushed his mouth; his eyes flickered shut. _Oh god. Bed. Now._

 _"Is_ it good enough for you?" Lestrade murmured, as their noses rubbed.

Inhaling, Mycroft wrapped both arms around his body.

"It is," he whispered, pulling Lestrade close. His voice shook. "I-I believe it's more than satisfactory."

He felt Lestrade grin against his mouth. "I want to be quartermaster."

"I... cannot _appoint_ a quartermaster," Mycroft said, his stomach tightening as Lestrade stroked a thumb beneath his lips, meeting his words with the gentlest of kisses. Each one hitched his pulse. "It's an elected position... voted by the crew. It's a safeguard against my authority."

"But you'll vote for me... right?" Lestrade asked. He pressed his mouth properly to Mycroft's; the whole room seemed to exhale.

As they parted, Mycroft's heart gave a dizzy, desperate thump.

"I'm not permitted to vote," he said. "Except in the situation of a tie, I'm entirely uninvolved in the—"

"Fine," Greg grinned, his eyes flashing, and stole another kiss. "Just have to charm your crew like I charmed you, won't I?"

"Not... _precisely_ like you charmed me, I hope..."

"Mm hmm... hammock to hammock, week by week."

Possessiveness prickled through Mycroft's stomach at the very thought, low and hot and unpleasant.

He tightened his arms around Greg's body.

"Only mine," he said. "Without condition. I do not share."

Greg smiled, stroking his fingers back through Mycroft's hair.

"S'pose I can agree to that," he whispered. He looked into Mycroft's eyes, enjoying whatever it was he found in them. "I want you," he breathed. Mycroft's heart thundered. "I want your eyes on me all the time... I want your hands on my body, your words in my head. I want to tame you. I want you to make me wild." He leant close, claiming Mycroft's lips.

By the time they even reached the bed, the candles had burned low in their holders.

As Greg nuzzled between his thighs, coaxing them with his hands to open wider, Mycroft pressed his flushed face into the pillow and moaned. He rutted into the bed with a gasp; Greg's tongue flickered over his hole.

"More—" he huffed. His back arched. "Oh god, more. Don't torment me. _More—"_

Greg gave a quiet hum, continuing to lick the lightest and gentlest little stripes between his legs.

With a groan Mycroft reached for the headboard, searching for the purchase he needed to thrust backwards. Before he could get a decent grip, Greg's arms snaked up and locked around his waist. They dragged him down the bed out of reach; Mycroft unleashed a stream of blasphemy and pleas.

It was to no avail.

All he could do was claw at the sheets, squirm and moan as Greg slowly and gently explored him, tonguing between his legs like they had the entire night. Greg licked him until he felt so soft and wet and open that to stay empty almost hurt. His cock throbbed between the bed and his belly, pinned into place and ignored. His restless writhing brought no relief. No matter how he whimpered, Greg continued to fill him with quiet and patient pleasure, lick by lick.

At last, with Mycroft a boneless and compliant wreck beneath him, Greg reached for the stoppered glass bottle on the bedside.

"B-Bastard," Mycroft managed to pant, tightening his fingers in the sheets.

Greg's lazy chuckle made his cock twitch.

"Good for you to learn some patience," he murmured. Mycroft felt him shiver, coating himself in the oil. "I can see why you like doing that... gets the appetite up, doesn't it? I'm hard as iron."

"Oh god—" Mycroft braced the heels of his hands against the mattress, arching backwards. "Oh, _god._ Do it. Now."

A firm hand pressed against his lower back, forcing him flat to the bed once more. "Which part of 'patience'...?"

Mycroft groaned and hissed at once, knotting the sheets within his grip.

"I _order you,"_ he said, "as captain of this vessel—"

Grg's weight shifted on top of him. The nuzzle of Greg's cock against his arsehole tightened his command into an undignified whimper.

"Oh, _fuck—"_ he gasped instead, clenching as it began to press inside him. "Fuck, yes, _yes—"_

"Beg me," Greg murmured, holding still.

Mycroft nearly bit through his cheek. "Do it!" he barked. "For god's sake—"

Greg waited, fingers curling at his hips.

Shuddering, Mycroft whispered against the bed.

"Please," he gasped. His heart seemed to rupture. "Oh, god. Fuck me. Please."

The hot, oiled stretch crammed every thought from his head. He let them go, panting and moaning, trying his best to stay still as inch-by-inch Greg filled him to the brim. Greg's hands helped; they stayed tight at his hips, easing his squirms. He'd not taken in years. He'd never thought he would again. As Greg sank deeper, he leant down to kiss and nuzzle the back of Mycroft's neck, murmuring some softness to him which tightened Mycroft's heart to half its size. He raised his head from the mattress, shivering.

Greg's cheek stroked against his own.

The rasp of stubble flickered through Mycroft's nerves. He pressed his teeth into his lower lip, breathing, waiting for his body to adjust to the sheer size of the cock now heaving him apart. He liked Greg's weight; he liked the measured breaths against his shoulder.

He liked Greg's fingers sliding along his arms, hands wrapping around the backs of his own.

The bright gold band of the ring gleamed in the candlelight.

Gazing at it, panting, Mycroft smiled.

The first thrust wiped the smile from his face at once. He grunted with shock and enjoyment, digging his fingers into the mattress; Greg's shudder raised the hair on the back of his neck. He began to fuck Mycroft at a steady pace, ungentle and deep and demanding. Tight hot tremors of submissive pleasure soon spread through Mycroft's body in waves.

He'd forgotten this could feel so good.

It wasn't a simple sensation; it wasn't immediately rewarding. When it started to feel good, the depth of it took his breath. Every nerve and every muscle in his body drew tight and ached with the rightness of it, _taken, fucked,_ his abdomen echoing with each slam against his prostate. He felt like a bell, ringing and quavering. Greg's mouth at the side of his neck kept him panting. He anchored himself in Greg's breathy moans, his heart beating harder and harder each time he felt his lover's hands tighten around his own, and pressed his teeth into his lower lip. _Fuck me. Tame me. Have your fill of me._

Panting, Mycroft spread his legs further apart.

Greg shuddered, driving harder.

When he hit his peak, he buried his face in Mycroft's neck with a guttural groan. His thrusts grew wet and warm. Mycroft shivered, rocking back into them, and moaned his soft encouragement.

The motions of Greg's hips finally eased. He exhaled, a long and sated rush of air; he pressed a tender kiss to Mycroft's neck.

"You alright?" he whispered.

Mycroft gripped Greg's hands. He found his need to come strangely lessened; the need to bond rose to the fore. "Yes," he murmured, tilting his head back to be nuzzled. "Y-Yes, very alright..."

Greg's mouth stroked along his jaw. "Too much?"

"Not in the least."

"Get the feeling you don't usually take..."

Mycroft huffed. "What in my demeanour led you to that conclusion?"

Greg's grin engendered his own; they shivered together, nuzzling, their hearts pattering in every shared inch of skin.

"Your turn yet," Greg said, softly. He caught Mycroft's earlobe for a gentle tug. "How d'you want to finish?"

Mycroft thought about it, glowing quietly.

"Some time from now," he said at last, "with you in my lap, kissing me, listing all my best qualities and stroking my hair."

He felt Greg's chest expand against his back. There came a moment's pause.

"Would it be alright if I'd started to love you?" Greg said. He nosed behind Mycroft's ear.

Happy to the soul, Mycroft smiled. "I'm sure I could permit the impertinence."

Their faces were close enough for him to feel Greg's breathing catch—feel his hesitance, his hope, feel the quiet drumming of his heart.

"'Permit'..." Greg murmured. "Maybe someday to return?"

Stretching, smiling now from ear-to-ear, Mycroft tilted his head to gaze back over one shoulder.

"After all the liberties I've granted you," he said, bright-eyed, and watched with utter joy as Greg grinned, "are you truly in doubt?"

"I'd... like to hear it, all the same."

"Mhm. I imagine you would." Mycroft shifted onto his back, smiling as Greg gave him the space to turn. "A demanding beast you've become," he noted, "over the course of a week... now you march onto my ship, interrupting my work, to demand not only a job but an elected position I can't possibly grant you, as well as my arse and my heart. May I inquire what gives you the right?"

As Greg nuzzled into his neck, Mycroft pressed his teeth into his lower lip.

"I have it on good authority that the world belongs to me," his lover murmured, and Mycroft's chest heaved. "I'm starting with the parts I want the most..."

His mouth felt like heaven against Mycroft's throat. It stroked up and down with perfect slowness, teasing the finer hairs all over his body onto end. As Greg kissed him, Mycroft caressed the muscles in his back; he smiled up at the canopy of his bed.

"Say it," Greg whispered against his skin. "Please. I worried."

Shivering, Mycroft lifted his mouth to Greg's ear.

"I missed you greatly," he murmured, and fanned his fingers through Greg's hair as he spoke. "I thought I'd be a fool if I asked you to stay... in fact, I was a fool to let you leave." He almost heard Greg's heart rate quicken. "You say that you've started to love me?"

Greg nodded, making not a sound.

Mycroft brushed his lips against his temple. "I would very much like you to continue."

 


	5. Bowspirit

**_Three Years Later_ **

 

Greg adjusted the spyglass against his eye, frowning as it filled with a flash of sunlight. The distant ship seemed to have stopped upon the waves. On its deck, no doubt, another glass pointed back at them, scanning them in concern for any distinguishing features.

None would be found. To the world, they were a harmless French brigantine.

"Anything?" Anthea asked at his side, waiting with the open ledger.

Greg adjusted the lens, biting the inside of his cheek. Letters sharpened out of the fuzz. "'The Partway'?" he said.

She searched through the ledger, flicking between pages at speed. As he took the glass from his eye, blinking, her fingertip stalled against an entry. "The _Portway,_ by any chance?"

"That'll be it. English flag. What's her trade?"

Anthea's mouth flattened. "Slaves," she said. "Bound for Kingston, I imagine, if she's sailing the same route she was a year ago. Possibly carrying goods as well."

Greg huffed. "You had me at 'slaves'," he said, handing her the spyglass. "Get us closer. Watch for signals. All hands," he barked, "look alive!"

As Anthea's orders were relayed along the deck, and men scrambled to their stations, Greg strode between them towards the captain's cabin. He knocked as he reached it but didn't wait, twisting open the door at once.

"Slavers," he said before the question could be asked, leaning inside with one hand on the frame. "English galleon, probably headed for Kingston. Likely to have a few guns. Permission to find out how many?"

Mycroft laid aside his quill, amused.

"You _are_ bloodthirsty this month, aren't you?" he said, sitting back in his chair. "That's the third in as many weeks. One would almost think you're trying to remind the crew of your valour and tenacity."

"You said I can eat as many slavers as I want," Greg protested. "They're my favourite."

"Mm. I do love to indulge you." Mycroft reached aside to his platter for a bunch of grapes, sighing as he pulled a few free. "Very well," he said. "Take them down. Kill the crew, keep the ship intact and liberate the captives. We'll escort them along to Nassau then sell the vessel for parts. Leave any cargo aboard, will you? Our hold's nearly full."

Greg nodded. As he went to shut the door, Mycroft's voice called after him.

"Gregory?"

Greg leant back inside, raising an eyebrow.

His captain smiled. "I assume you and your rampant bloodlust will be leading the boarding party?"

Greg snorted. "Of course I will," he said. "For at least the next eight hours, I'm the master of quarter—and that means we give none."

"I see. In that case, please don't get yourself killed." Mycroft placed a few grapes into his mouth. "Otherwise we'll have to rearrange tonight's vote," he said, chewing, "and Anthea has only just finished the preparations."

Greg fought a smile. "No worries, captain. Sit tight and eat your grapes. I'll be back in an hour with the new heads for our mantlepiece."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow, his gaze warming with a glitter. "I think you mean _my_ mantelpiece, quartermaster."

"Curious," Greg mused. _"Your_ mantelpiece, in the cabin where _I_ sleep..." He let himself out, closing the door with a clunk.

 

***

 

As the boarding party returned, wounded and weary with their trophy carried between them in a blood-stained English flag, the captain awaited them on the quarterdeck. Most of the crew had assembled to see.

Greg led the way, his eyes on Mycroft, trying his hardest not to smile.

In Mycroft's presence, he gestured for his men to down their prize.

"This," he said, as the flag unravelled onto the deck, and out of it rolled a lifeless English aristocrat, "is the captain of The Portway. He now appreciates the subtle difference between those choices which are legal and those which are moral."

Mycroft pressed his lips together, visibly delighted. "Yes, I imagine he does."

"Can I point out the stain," Greg said, gesturing with the tip of his saber, "where he pissed himself at the sight of me?"

"Mm. Very good."

"I thought he'd look nice hung in chains from the front. A sort of piñata for the sharks. Unless you want him, captain? He'd make a decent draught excluder, maybe. Leave it a couple of months and we can grow turnips in him."

Laughter rippled through the crew; there came whistles and cheers of agreement.

Greg watched, grinning, as Mycroft gave in.

"Excellently done, Lestrade." The tiny smile set his heart leaping. Mycroft looked between the rest of the boarding party, meeting their eyes in turn; they smiled through their wounds and their exhaustion. "All of you. Very well done. Are the captives freed?"

"Yep," said Greg. "Physician's over there already, tending to the sick. A few people have asked if they can join us." He leant upon his saber. "I've told 'em it's fine, so long as they promise to vote for me tonight."

Mycroft's eyes flashed. "Lestrade."

"What?" said Greg, biting into his smile. "We've got the room."

Mycroft raised his chin. "Pressing new recruits," he said, "into voting for your re-election as quartermaster is neither legal nor moral."

"Seriously?" said Greg. "Next you'll be telling me I'm not allowed to bribe anyone."

More laughter filtered through the watching crew.

Greg watched a glitter fill his lover's eyes.

Mycroft smoothed his tongue across his teeth, wiping away his smile.

"Change your clothes and wash," he said, regarding Greg, "then you and I will have a conversation in my cabin about due process."

Greg bowed, perhaps a little lower than necessary.

"The rest of the boarding party," Mycroft said, glancing across them, "may head to the galley. Tell the cook you're to have whatever food you wish. And the remainder of you, return to your duties."

He inclined his head over one shoulder to Anthea.

"Will you kindly arrange chains for our guest?" he said, as the captain of the Portway continued to bleed across the flag. She nodded, writing in her book. "Long ones. I'm not certain how high sharks can jump."

 

***

 

Greg grinned as he shut the door of the cabin, granting them some privacy for a while.

"I've got off all the blood I can," he warned, as Mycroft crossed the room to him, "but just so you know, there's still a little—"

Mycroft slammed him up against the door. The key rattled in the lock. As he kissed Greg, hard, his hands dove without hesitation beneath Greg's shirt. They raked across his chest, scratching; they wrapped around his waist and roamed his aching back muscles.

Greg groaned between their mouths, panting already.

"Myc—" he gasped, muffled. Mycroft's nails dug into his shoulders. "M-Myc—Christ—"

"What you cause in me," Mycroft breathed against his mouth, his voice dangerously soft, "when you toy with me in public is not easily quenched."

Greg grinned.

"Sorry," he whispered, flushing. "Don't mean to give you cheek. You know I love teasing you—" Mycroft reached for the tie of his breeches, pulling at the knot; Greg's back arched against the door with a moan. "H-Holy fuck... now?"

Mycroft seized his mouth and kissed it, searching it hungrily with his tongue. _Now,_ Greg thought, releasing another moan, shuddering as Mycroft loosened the fabric.

When their lips parted, it left him gasping.

"I'm glad you returned safely," Mycroft breathed. "You were marvellously brave." His hands delved inside Greg's breeches, found his cock and wrapped around it. Greg jerked, groaning. Mycroft stroked him as he spoke. "You led the men wonderfully, as ever. You brought me a thoughtful gift. And I will be delighted to see you re-elected tonight."

With a last gentle kiss, he settled on his knees.

Greg's heart jolted against his ribs.

"Fuck..." he breathed. "Myc..." His hands searched the smooth wooden door behind him, trying to find some feature to grip as Mycroft teased down his breeches just enough to free his cock beneath his shirt. Mycroft shifted closer on his knees. He gazed upwards and started to lick, round-eyed and delicate with his tongue.

Each slow little stroke pulled Greg's stomach tighter.

Watching when Mycroft did this was half the joy. He knew what he was doing; he knew how to make it pretty. He let Greg's cock rasp restlessly against the short red bristles of his beard. He let Greg cup the back of his head and guide his mouth onto his cock when he couldn't bear the innocent licking any longer. Throughout, he kept his gaze on Greg's and his mouth soft and wet, holding Greg's hips at either side to encourage his thrusts.

At last, with a warning whimper, Greg tried to stall the rocking of Mycroft's jaw. His head thumped back against the door. "S-Shit—Myc—"

Mycroft hummed, low, and nuzzled tighter into his groin.

Greg came fighting to temper his moans, releasing them in whimpers and gasps as his hips shuddered out their release. Mycroft stayed as he was, humming softly, swallowing in contentment.

As Greg panted into his afterglow, his cock softening, Mycroft tended with care to his clothes. He kissed Greg's stomach, lowered his shirt, tucked it in and re-knotted the strings of his breeches.

He then rose to his feet, a picture of grace.

Greg shivered as they kissed against the door, deep and slow, tasting himself on Mycroft's tongue.

Quietly he re-untucked part of his shirt.

"What are you doing?" Mycroft murmured, cupping his cheek. Their lips touched, feather-soft.

"Can't leave here looking too neat," Greg said. He smiled, still flushing. "They'll know you tidied me up."

Mycroft's lazy chuckle seemed to tumble down his spine. "Quite certain if I threw you over the wheel and fucked you 'til you howl, they'd all still discreetly avert their eyes."

 _Christ._ "Y-Yeah... yeah, they've gotten good at that..."

Mycroft's mouth curved. "Behave yourself for the rest of the day, please. I have things to do. I haven't the time to curtail your restless energy."

Greg pressed his teeth into his lip; he slipped his hands around Mycroft's waist.

"And what about _your_ restless energy?" he murmured, adding with a drop of his eyelashes, "...captain."

"I don't suffer from restless energy, Lestrade. I channel it into productivity."

"Yeah?" Greg swept his tongue across Mycroft's lower lip. "D'you want to fuck my mouth?"

Mycroft's expression quirked with delight. "The forthright approach, is it?"

"S'worked on you so far."

"Indeed." Mycroft brushed their noses, slowly. "And you do recall that I'm forbidden to vote for you?"

"Oh right, yeah. Guess I'll head off then."

Mycroft's soft growl stopped Greg in his tracks. Grinning, he reached down to wrap his fingers around the front of Mycroft's belt.

"Love you," he murmured, tugging Mycroft closer, and began to undo the silver buckle as they kissed. Between slow flashes of tongue, he breathed, "I love you so much."

"Mm?" His lover's hands rounded his arse and squeezed. "Show me."

 

***

 

"Should prob'ly show our faces soon..."

"Mm?"

Greg placed his lips to Mycroft's forehead, enjoying the faint taste of salt in his sweat. "They'll all be wondering what we're doing," he said.

His lover's low chuckle raised the hair on his arms.

"They know precisely what we're doing," Mycroft murmured, shifting to lie on top of him, and gathered Greg's jaw into his hands. "They're leaving us to it. It's probably seen as one of your key duties by now... soothing my sharper edges... tempering my bloodlust by vigorous indulgence of other lusts."

Greg grinned. He trailed his open palms down Mycroft's sides, enjoying the familiar planes of his body. "Keeping you on the softer side of 'tyrant'?"

Mycroft's eyes glittered.

"I am not a tyrant," he whispered, and lazily claimed Greg's mouth. Their tongues stirred between them for some time. His fingers raked through Greg's hair, stroking it up onto end.

As their lips parted, Greg breathed against them, _"My_ tyrant."

He felt Mycroft smile. "Deep calleth unto deep, my darling."

"I thought you had things to do today? No time to 'curtail my restless energy'."

"Amazing, how plans can flex when I decide that I want something. And you are of course a nervous wreck as the dreaded hour draws near... it's only right that I take some time to soothe you." Mycroft stretched slowly, nestling himself against Greg's side and resting his cheek upon his shoulder. "Mmhm. Those wonderful moments of clarity after connection."

"Clarity?" Greg smiled, kissing his forehead. "Should I be worried?"

Mycroft's throaty chuckle made him grin. "Not at all."

"Why? What's become clear to you?"

"How glad I am to have once hated you."

Greg laughed. "Fair enough..." he said, watching as Mycroft trailed a fingertip through his chest hair. "Why glad?"

Mycroft waited until he'd finished drawing his heart shape to reply, smiling against Greg's shoulder.

"Love is a rope bridge," he said, "spanning the caverns of the human heart. One hard jostle and a fall into the unknown." He leant closer, pressing his lips to Greg's cheekbone. "You and I have walked those caverns together already. We know their shadows."

Greg smiled, quietly moved. He supposed few things on this earth would part them now. He nosed at Mycroft's cheek, letting his eyes close with contentment. "We've done it all already."

"Mhm..." Mycroft's lips stroked the shell of his ear. "Even when I loathed you, it was with longing. You were in my soul before I'd seen your face. That is no small thing."

 _God._ Greg felt his shiver spread the full length of his spine, easing out across his skin. "D'you know what it does to me," he said, "when you talk like that?"

"Like...?"

"Like we're made for each other."

His lover stirred, nuzzling down his neck. "Tell me what does it do to you."

Greg's heart ached; it seemed to echo in his bones.

"Makes me want to follow you across the sea forever," he said. As Mycroft kissed his pulse, his eyes fluttered shut. "Stay as close as you'll let me. Closer. Become a legend together."

Mycroft chuckled.

"Holmes and Lestrade," he murmured, catching Greg's hand. Their fingers laced. "Two names, said in one breath for the rest of time... whether said in fear or admiration, it does not matter. So long as they are said."

"C-Christ..." Greg swallowed, shivering. "Myc..."   

Mycroft lifted their tangled fingers to his lips. He kissed the ring that never left Greg's hand; his pupils grew.

"Mine," he murmured.

Greg bit down into his grin. "Yours."

The smile which curved across Mycroft's mouth lifted his heart to the heavens. "You will do wonderfully tonight," Mycroft promised. "I will be very proud."

 

***

 

As the sun went down, the dining space below deck began to fill. Barrels of ale were rolled through from the galley and cracked open. Joints of meat arrived, along with bowls of stew and baskets of bread, and long before the appointed hour, the room rang with boisterous conversation and laughter. The whole crew had gathered; every seat was taken.

At the high table, the captain kept his quartermaster's goblet topped up with wine.

To the eyes of the crew, it was an entirely ordinary conversation they were having. The sight of them side-by-side at mealtimes, thick as thieves, discussing things between themselves with bright eyes and barely contained smiles, was nothing new.

Only the two of them had any notion there was something amiss.

"Rare I get the chance to see you anxious," Mycroft remarked. Greg glanced at him over the rim of his goblet. "It's rather adorable, I must say. Perhaps we should hold these re-elections more often."

Greg huffed. He'd thought he was hiding his restlessness better; then, he'd never had much luck in hiding things from Mycroft. "M'not anxious. What's given you that idea?"

Hidden beneath the table, Mycroft's fingers slipped between his own, keeping his hand settled on Mycroft's thigh.

Greg grinned a little.

"Alright," he admitted. "Maybe a bit." He looked across the crowded room, taking it all in. "Not ashamed to say it matters to me. I've had a good run so far... don't want to pack it in just yet."

Mycroft's fingers idled along the back of his hand, stroking their way from his wrist to his fingertips. "You have no cause for concern."

"Says the one person in the room with no say in the decision," Greg remarked, eyeing him sideways.

Mycroft chuckled.

"This morning you led a boarding party like a tiger," he said, as he reached for wine. "Now you tremble at the thought of a democratic vote."

As Greg drank, half-smiling, he saw the doors at the back of the room open. Mycroft's assistant strode between them, followed by two sailors carrying heavy glass jars.

"Christ," he mumbled into his goblet, watching as the jars were brought forward. "Here we go..." At Anthea's direction, the jars were placed side-by-side on a small table laid out ready for proceedings. She then ushered both men to their seats.

As she glanced up at the high table, seeking Mycroft's nod, Greg felt his stomach tighten.

Mycroft nodded, idly squeezing Greg's hand.

Anthea turned to face the crowded room.

"Onto business!" she called. Sailors shifted round in their seats; conversations came to an end. "We gather here tonight as free men and free women, to elect a quartermaster who will stand in protection of our interests. The current quartermaster is Lestrade—"

A roar of cheers drowned her out at once. It swelled with its own force, soon ringing from every corner of the room. Cutlery rattled as fists thundered against the tables. Sailors raised their cups, drinking toasts.

Hidden beneath the table, Mycroft's toe brushed Greg's ankle. _I told you so._

Greg grinned warily, toasting them all back.

Anthea waited with patience for the cacophony to die down.

"—who has put forward his name to continue," she finished. "At the end of our last voyage, he won the vote unanimously and has served ever since." She drew a breath. "On this occasion, we've had no other crew member challenge him for quartermaster."

Greg's heart nearly ruptured. _Christ. Thank Christ._

"And _so,"_ Anthea half-shouted, as more cheering broke out, "it has been decided in consultation with the crew—"

Under the table, Mycroft's fingers slid around Greg's wrist and into his palm.

"—that Lestrade," Anthea said, bent down and retrieved a sack from by her feet, "will run—"

She emptied the sack onto the table with a thump.

"—against this dead seagull, which brained itself upon the mast this morning and dropped into our midst, thereby announcing its candidacy."

The loudest and longest cheer so far went up, roars of laughter and chanting, pounding of the tables and a break-out of singing. Several people leapt from their seats to dance a short jig in honour of the seagull.

Greg glanced across at Mycroft, grinning from ear-to-ear, and found the captain drinking wine with an entirely innocent expression.

"What?" Mycroft inquired, leaning back in his chair. He crossed one leg over the other as he gestured at the crowd. "This is how democracy works."

"You bastard," Greg said, grinning. "This was your idea."

"If the seagull has expressed its wish to run against you," Mycroft said, unmoved, "then I have no power to intervene. Pout at me all you want."

Greg leant a little closer, lowering his voice beneath the rowdy singing.

"If it wins," he warned, his eyes bright, "you can fuck yourself tonight."

"Mm." Mycroft took a sip of wine. "As that particular privilege usually falls to our quartermaster, I imagine the seagull will take it up."

"Yeah? You'd better hope so."

Anthea had now arranged the seagull face down beside the two glass jars. She glanced coolly over one shoulder.

"Lestrade?" she called. "Please join the other candidate at the table."

To cheers and shouts of laughter, Greg grinned and shoved back his chair. He took his time to get there. When he did, he bent down and with a deadpan expression shook the seagull's wing, prompting even Mycroft and Anthea to laugh.

Upright, hands behind his back, he addressed the crowd.

"I am Lestrade," he began—and was silenced at once by bellowing cheers. The table-thumping went on for nearly a minute. Greg grinned, gripping his own wrists. "I am the weary shield which stands between you lot and Captain Holmes's deranged lust for power. You might think him a benevolent man, who pays fairly, feeds you well and compensates all those injured in the line of duty—but without me, you'd spend most of your time hanging from the rigging by your ankles. The man's barbarism knows no bounds. He once went so far as to suggest we swap pork chop day to Wednesday."

Cries of theatrical outrage went up.

"The very devil!" someone shouted, to an outbreak of laughter.

"And so," Greg went on, with a glance to confirm the smirk he could now feel fixed on the back of his head, "if you want to leave yourselves in safe hands, vote for me. With all due respect to my rival—" He eyed the seagull, as the crew laughed. "—he simply lacks the experience, the tenacity and the courage of heart to handle the force of nature that is Captain Mycroft Holmes. He's also gonna smell soon and I think he's missing a chunk of his beak. Thank you."

He stepped back.

When the cheering had died down, Anthea—fighting a smile—addressed the seagull.

"Lestrade's rival," she said. "Have you any remarks to make?"

Pantomime seagull noises broke out in abundance.

"An excellent point," she said, "and extremely well-made." She straightened up. "You should all have been provided with a wooden ball upon entering the room—except for Captain Holmes, who is quite naturally and properly excluded from the vote except in the event of a tie."

She indicated the two glass jars upon the table.

"The _left-hand jar_ is a vote for Lestrade," she said. "The _right-hand jar_ is a vote for the seagull. Is everyone quite clear," she added, eyeing the crowd, "on what will now take place?"

There were enthusiastic nods in response. Greg found himself concerned by the gleam in several people's eyes.

"In that case," she said, "up you get and form a line." She reached out her hand to the jar for the seagull, dropping her wooden ball with a cheerful clink. "When you've cast your vote, sit yourself back down."

Greg watched, trying not to smile, as an eager crowd assembled and pushed forward.

One-by-one, they made their votes. As balls dropped evenly into either jar, Greg attempted to count them with rising feelings of both amusement and concern. Anthea stood between them, counting too.

As the old cook shuffled forward, reaching his hand towards the seagull's jar, she muttered, "You're for Lestrade, Thomkins."

"Ooh, righto. Nearly."

The ball plinked pleasantly into Greg's jar.

He cast a sideways glance at Anthea. "You're prepared to live with any unintended consequences of this piece of hilarity, are you?"

"I'm sure the role of quartermaster will go to the right man for the job, Lestrade," she said, coolly, watching the next man shuffle forwards. "Don't fret."

"'Cause if you accidentally demote me for a seagull," he warned her, "I promise you now: I _will_ sit on my arse getting pissed for the next six months. I'm looking forward to seeing him lead the boarding parties."

More sailors came up; more votes were cast. Greg had a worrying suspicion he'd lost count. He glanced over one shoulder at Mycroft, raised an eyebrow and attempted to convey in silence across a crowded room, _you are not funny._

Mycroft smirked against the edge of his goblet, taking a slow sip of wine. _I think you'll find that I am._

At last, the final ball was deposited. The final man took his seat.

Greg held his breath.

Anthea, pleased, turned to the room.

"We have a tie," she announced.

 _For fuck's sake._ Greg swallowed back his grin, folding his arms over his chest as the crew exploded into laughter and applause. A few began to chant his name; a few others, louder, began to chant for his rival. _"Seagull! Seagull!"_

"In the event of a tie," Anthea said, now smirking the entire width of her face, "it's tradition that the captain briefly relinquish command of his vessel, in order that he can cast the deciding vote." She turned to the high table. "Captain Holmes—do you surrender the ship?"

Mycroft tipped back his wine. He placed his goblet to one side, wiped his mouth and said, "I do."

As cheers went up, Anthea reached inside her coat. She withdrew a single wooden ball, held it up to show them, then tossed it with a smile to Mycroft.

He caught it from the air without a blink. He pushed back his chair and came to join them all, as the chanting and cheering reached an almost thunderous volume. To a crescendo of banging on the tables, he approached the two glass jars.

He paused as he stood before them, rolling the ball in his hand.

"What to do," he sighed, as if to himself. "Power is such a burden."

Greg bit down into his grin. He leant as close as he dared in front of the crew, lowering his voice beneath the noise. "Don't you fucking dare."

Mycroft clicked his tongue, pondering the matter. "The seagull _does_ have some excellent ideas, Lestrade. You can't deny that."

"You're a bastard," Greg murmured, his heart leaping. He decided to risk it. "And you're my world."

Mycroft smothered his smile.

"Mm. In light of which, I suppose..." He dropped the ball into Greg's jar. "Congratulations, quartermaster."

Greg felt his soul take flame. "Thank you, captain."

As his lover vanished beneath a pile of cheering pirates, Mycroft neatly stepped back from the chaos.

"I want him fit for duty at dawn, gentlemen," he called. "Don't get him too drunk."

He strode from the room with Anthea at his side, as a fiddle struck up and the singing began.

 

***

 

Greg's head rolled like a bottle on the waves—drifting to where, he didn't mind. He was vaguely aware of being carried over someone's shoulder, rocked from side to side by the swaying of their footsteps. There came a knock against wood, which startled him awake with a grunt; he slumped back into his stupor as voices blurred across his brain.

Hinges squeaked.

Hinges squeaked again; a door closed with a snap.

Greg protested the noise with a wince, pushing both hands over his eyes.

"No," he mumbled. "Don't—s'loud..."

"You damn drunken idiot," came the mutter in his ear. Strong arms fastened themselves around his chest. "I am _officially_ displeased with you."

"Mnnh?" The rub of linen nightwear against Greg's nose tipped him off. He knew that scent. "M'croff..." he hummed, and nestled into the arms now anchored around him. "Awww."

"I'm _attempting_ to navigate you into bed, you utter—stop trying to embrace me—"

"Mnnh?"

"For heaven's sake. Here. You recall how a bed is operated, do you? Get in it. Unless you intend to throw up, in which case get out of it immediately."

"Throw up?" Greg sagged into the sudden softness surrounding him, groaning a little at its warmth. "Why d'you need t'throw up, love? You 'kay?"

"How much ale have you actually imbibed?"

"Um. A bit. We've all been drinkin' for... um, a while..." Greg's memory pulsed. "But I'm quarmasser again!"

"Yes, I'm aware."

"I won the vote!"

"Yes," Mycroft said, with a sigh, "very good."

Greg grinned up the ceiling. "I put the seagull in the brig, M'croff," he said. "Challengin' my authority. S'in there now. You should go see it." Mycroft's hands suddenly hooked inside the waistband of his breeches, tugging them down. "Who-o-o-o-o-oa, okay... don't expect much, though."

"God almighty... I should have told them to take _you_ to the brig..." Mycroft freed the crumpled fabric from his ankles, dropping it out of the bed. "I am undressing you to _sleep,_ dolt. I am not undressing you for sex."

Greg whimpered. "But I'm quarmasser."

"Are you indeed."

"I won the vote." Greg's memory pulsed again. "M'croff, I put the seagull in the brig."

"Did you," Mycroft said, leaning over to him to undo the ties of his shirt. He eyed Greg with quiet amusement. "You do realise the crew are so aware of our relationship that you're now fetched automatically to _my_ cabin, don't you?"

"Mnnh?"

"Handed over to me like something I left in a shop."

Greg frowned, raising an eyebrow as best he could. "This _s'our_ cabin, M'croff. S'my things in it."

"Oh, indeed?"

"Mnmm." Greg grinned, sliding his arms around his lover's middle. "See. Right here."

"Oh, for..." Mycroft was trying not to smile; Greg could see it in his face, in his eyes. He knew that look too well. Mycroft laid down beside him and pulled the covers up around them, and Greg hummed with happiness as he kissed along Mycroft's jaw. "You are ridiculous," his lover told him, flatly, "and you are drunk. Now be quiet, please, and sleep."

Glowing, Greg nestled closer.

"C'mere," he said, holding Mycroft tight. He nuzzled into Mycroft's neck. "Christ, you smell good. Okay—now lissen—got to tell you somethin'. S'important."

"Is it regarding the seagull?"

"No. Told you that."

"Is it that you are quartermaster?"

"Mnnh? No. Told you that too."

"Is it how very sorry you are?" Mycroft said, as he stroked Greg's hair, smiling against his cheek. Their legs tangled beneath the covers.

Greg felt his heart expand.

"No," he said, softly. "S'more important than that."

"What is it?" his lover asked.

He rubbed his nose beneath the neck of Mycroft's night shirt. "I love you," he murmured. "My M'croff. Love you so much. Thank you f'voting f'me."

Mycroft's arms tightened around him.

"I love you too, beast." He gently kissed Greg's ear. "In spite of all possible sense. Shall we try to sleep now?"

"Mnnh. Okay."

"You have duties to attend to at dawn, mm? You need your sleep."

"How long s'it 'til dawn?" Greg mumbled. "S'like. Ten hours at least? Be fine." He heaved a yawn, burrowing into Mycroft's warmth. "Juss have a little nap and m'be fine."

"Mm... that's the spirit." Mycroft's fingertips soothed through his hair. "Good night, you drunken scoundrel. I shall see you in the morning."

Happy to the bone, Greg kissed his lover's neck. "G'night, gorgeous. You sleep tight now."

 

**_The End_ **

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With love and snugs for my Luxie, and with my deepest thanks to you all for your clicks. I hope you enjoyed the story. <3 If you're looking for something else to read, the pair in [_Diogenes_](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12899646) (even though it's Christmassy) have a similar feel to them. [_Husband, Mine_](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17473001) is also Top!Mycroft PWP with tenderness - or for historical-ish setting with adventure, [_Mara's Mercy_](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15600453) might tickle your fancy.


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